


Sentinel!Neal

by Alex51324



Series: Finding Home--the Dreaded Bonding AU [9]
Category: The Sentinel, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Crossover, Dreaded Bonding AU, Guide!Peter, Other, Pocket AU, sentinel!Neal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 102,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey is a Sentinel.  Peter is a Guide.  There are some complications.  </p>
<p>(AU of my Sentinel/Guide Dreaded Bonding AU.  Originally written in 2012.)<br/>(The DBAU is your standard "Sentinels and Guides are known; Guides are oppressed" AU; the twist in this pocket AU is that the Guide Rights Movement happened a generation ago, so nobody's getting tortured, but there's a lot of history underlying the situation our heroes find themselves in.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New York

**Author's Note:**

> OK, guys, so this story is a hot mess. It was originally written (and posted on LJ) in out-of-order fragments; there's a ginormous info-dump at the beginning, one section in the middle that I never wrote, and the ending is super-rushed, just to name the problems that weigh heaviest on my soul. The thing is, I've been meaning for _years_ to transfer over my fics from the LJ era, and every time I really think about it, I get bogged down in "Oh, God, I have to do something about Sentinel!Neal." Then I got on a re-reading jag this weekend, and I decided I'd just go ahead and put up what I have in the master file on my hard drive. 
> 
> That said, the story does have its moments, and a fair number of people found it worth reading.

Parking the Taurus outside Attica Correctional Facility, Peter looked up at the forbidding gray walls that surrounded the complex, like a medieval castle. It was an ugly place, full of ugly people, and he’d never liked thinking of Neal Caffrey here. Even though Peter had been the one to _put_ him here. Twice. 

When he’d escaped, with less than six months left on his sentence, Peter thought he was an idiot. When he learned the reason—or what they had thought was the reason—he’d thought he was a _complete_ idiot. Neal’s girlfriend, who until that time had visited him weekly, had ended the relationship. It happened. Why Neal thought that escaping from prison—and therefore guaranteeing himself an extended sentence—was the way to win her back, Peter had no idea. 

At least, he had no idea until the prison officials contacted him to say that as it turned out, Neal Caffrey was an UnRegistered Sentinel, and Kate Moreau was actually his Guide. Without her visits, Neal was unable to control the heightened senses that—in many people’s mind—marked him as a protector of the human tribe. Military service was no longer mandatory for Sentinels, but most still gravitated toward military and law enforcement careers, careers where their instinct to protect could be trained and used for the good of society.

It was ironic that these tough, almost super-powered protectors were completely dependent on Guides for their basic functioning. A Guide was a person capable of forming an empathic connection with a Sentinel, which allowed the Sentinel to manage his or her senses—to hear sounds above or below the normal range of human hearing, or to distinguish among hundreds of scents, for example. Even more importantly, the presence of a Guide allowed the Sentinel to not do that. Without one, Sentinels were vulnerable to “spikes” where they were overwhelmed with input from one or more senses, or “zones” where they lost track of outside input and became nearly catatonic. 

Guides, on the other hand, didn’t need Sentinels at all. There was an old-fashioned idea that Guides were especially vulnerable individuals who needed the protection of a Sentinel, but that had gone out with horse-drawn buggies and floor-length skirts. If Guides needed protection, it was because they often had to follow their Sentinels into dangerous situations. Guiding a Sentinel was a difficult, often thankless job that required the patience of a saint. In the days when military service had been mandatory for Sentinels, it had been mandatory for Guides, too, and being identified as a Guide—children were tested for both traits in school—had meant a life sentence of servitude to a Sentinel. These days, many Guides accepted the task willingly, out of their natural compassion and respect for Sentinels’ service to the greater good. 

Most of the few Sentinels in the corrections system were individuals who, for one reason or another, couldn’t manage to keep a Guide, and functioned on a very low level, unable to hold jobs or even manage basic living skills because they were driven half out of their minds by uncontrolled senses. When they were arrested for, say, vagrancy or tearing off their clothes in public, or for survival crimes like shoplifting food, they were usually placed in psychiatric facilities, attended by Guides with nursing credentials who were drawn to helping these most helpless and needy of Sentinels.

High-functioning criminal Sentinels, like Neal apparently was, were rare. They not only had to overcome the protective instincts of a Sentinel, but they also had to have a criminal Guide, or corrupt one. Usually, when they were caught, the Guides accompanied their Sentinels into the corrections system, either because they were just as guilty as the Sentinels were, or because they accepted a plea deal that would keep them together. Such pairs were usually held in protective custody in the prison system. The very small number who entered the system _not_ identified as Sentinels quickly deteriorated, unable to cope with harsh prison conditions and with separation from their Guides, and could be transferred to psychiatric facilities when this deterioration became evident. 

Neal Caffrey, however, had coped with prison for almost four years, seeing his Guide only once a week, separated by Plexiglass. Two weeks after her last visit, he had still been well enough to plan and execute an escape from a super-maximum-security facility. And now—returned to prison two weeks ago after less than a full day on the lam—he was doing _badly_ , but not badly enough that he could safely be transferred to a secure psychiatric facility, which would certainly be much less secure than a Supermax. Now that they knew he was a Sentinel, the Bureau of Corrections _had_ to provide him with a Guide, but there was no place that already had Guides on staff that could hold him. And finding Guides willing to work in secure psychiatric facilities was difficult enough. Gentle, compassionate souls that they were, Peter couldn’t imagine there were too many of them willing to even consider a job as a prison guard.

As the Attica warden had told Peter, right now, Neal was doing just well enough in the prison infirmary that they could humanely keep him there a little longer, but they had no idea what to do with him for the long term. Two days ago, Neal had told the prison doctor that he had a solution to the problem, but he would only tell it to the FBI Agent who had caught him, twice. Peter Burke. The warden, when this was relayed to him, was highly skeptical, but, in desperation, had asked Peter to come find out what Neal’s idea was. 

So here Peter was. He wasn’t sure why—whatever Neal’s plan was, it was bound to be insane. But Peter didn’t like to think of him suffering. Even though he was a criminal, the guy was smart, and funny, and charming. Okay, so it was probably the superficial charm of a sociopath, but _Peter_ wasn’t a sociopath, and he couldn’t help responding to the idea of Neal, alone and in pain and asking for his help. Neal deserved to be in prison—Peter had no illusions about that—but he didn’t deserve to be in pain.

Finally, he got out of the car and approached the gate.

Peter was required to show his badge and explain the purpose of his visit at least half a dozen times before he finally gained admittance to the prison infirmary. They had put Neal in a quarantine room, that being the only private space available, with a guard on the door. Inside, the lights were dim, and there was a pervasive smell of vomit. Neal sat cross-legged on a gurney, a shapeless lump in orange coveralls, hunched over with his head in his hands. 

As the guard shut the door behind Peter, Neal looked up. Bleary-eyed, he managed a weak smile. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hey, yourself,” Peter answered. “You don’t look so good.”

“Tell me about it.” But he sat up straighter and stretched, looking more animated by the second. If the guard was watching, Peter thought, he’d think that Neal had been faking his earlier distress. And Peter certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone the real reason that Neal was suddenly feeling better. “Did you get my cards?”

Neal, for some reason, had sent Peter birthday cards every year he’d been in prison. “Yes. You said you had an idea,” Peter said.

“Oh, yeah.” Neal reached under the thin mattress on his gurney and took out a folder. “You can get me out of here. There’s case law—precedent. I can be released into your custody.”

Peter glanced through the folder Neal gave him. Abagnale was in there, and a handful of others who _hadn’t_ had major motion pictures based on their lives. “Nice. This is very thorough. But the second you get out of here, you’ll be off looking for Kate again. You can escape from a Supermax; you can escape from an _office building_.”

“Last page,” Neal said, gesturing toward the folder. “GPS tracking anklet. The new ones are tamper-proof. Never been skipped on.”

Peter turned to the last page. That was, indeed, what the Department of Justice report said. “There’s always a first time.”

“Think about it. You don’t have to say yes right away.”

“Why would I say yes at all?”

“Because I can help you,” Neal said. “You know I’m smarter than most of your co-workers. And—” He grinned. “I have a keen insight into the criminal mind.”

“And how, exactly, is this going to help with your problem?” Peter already knew the answer to that question. What he didn’t know was how _Neal_ knew. 

“Because you’re a Guide, Peter,” Neal said patiently. 

“You’re mistaken,” Peter said, his pulse hammering in his ears. 

Neal’s grin faltered. “No, I’m not.”

Peter continued as if Neal hadn’t spoken. “The Bureau does, of course, employ Guides for its Sentinel Agents. Whether any of them would be willing to work with a criminal informant on a tracking anklet is…unlikely, but maybe not as unlikely as getting one to sign on as a prison guard. I’ll discuss your proposal with my superiors, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”

“Pe-ter,” Neal said, his tone slightly wheedling. “C’mon. You like me. We’re pals, aren’t we?”

“No,” Peter said. “I am an FBI Agent. You are a felon that I caught.”

“Exactly.” Neal beamed. “So, if you tell your superiors that you’re willing to be my Guide, I bet they’ll say yes. After all, if I _did_ manage to skip on the anklet, you could just catch me again.”

“I can’t be anyone’s Guide,” Peter repeated, as if saying it again would make it true. “I’m not a Guide.” 

“We both know you are,” Neal said. 

They did. Neal wasn’t on a fishing expedition—Peter would be able to tell if he was. Neal knew, somehow. Still, Peter shook his head again.

Neal sighed. “But you’ll discuss it with your superiors?”

“Yes.” What he’d tell them, he had no idea, but he’d have to tell them something. Before Neal did. If he could talk his way into a face-to-face meeting with Agent Burke, he could manage at least a phone call to Senior-Agent-in-Charge Hughes, too. 

“Please, think about it, Peter. It’ll be good.”

Peter shook his head, and knocked on the door for the guard to let him out.

# 

The door opened, closed again, and Peter’s briefcase fell to the floor with a thump. Drawn by the obvious signs that her husband was having a very bad day, Elizabeth turned the heat down on dinner and went to the living room. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Wordlessly, Peter embraced her, burying his face in her shoulder. “He knows,” he murmured into her hair. “Caffrey knows I’m a Guide.”

“Oh…honey, are you sure?” She led him over to the sofa. 

“Yeah. Him saying, ‘You’re a Guide, Peter,’ was my first clue. He knows.” Peter rubbed his forehead. “He wants me to get him released into my custody. And if he doesn’t get what he wants, he’s got no reason not to turn me in.”

Elizabeth had known that her husband was an UnRegistered Guide since before they were married—he’d confessed it when their relationship started getting serious. Federal employees were required to Register their Sentinel or Guide status; Peter had broken the law by swearing he wasn’t a Guide. “What happens if he does?”

“I lose my job,” Peter said. “And possibly get prosecuted for perjury, although since that would reflect badly on the Bureau, they might decide to sweep it under the rug.”

“You could get another job,” Elizabeth pointed out. Peter loved being an FBI Agent, but he could do something else.

“Not a very good one. The Registration evasion will turn up on a background check, even if they don’t prosecute.” Peter looked around. “We’ll lose the house.”

“The business is doing better,” Elizabeth said. “We’d survive.”

“We’ll probably have to. I can’t—El, if I _do_ agree to this plan of his, he still has the threat to hang over my head. He could use it to make me let him escape…destroy evidence of crimes we haven’t prosecuted him for yet…turn a blind eye to any new ones he commits on my watch…and it could even get worse than that. I can’t give him what he wants.”

“No.” Elizabeth could see that. In Peter’s stories, Neal Caffrey always sounded funny, charming—a gentleman criminal. But he had to have a core of ruthlessness to be a criminal at all, and putting Peter in his power would ultimately ruin them all. Elizabeth read Victorian novels. She knew there was only one way to deal with a blackmailer. “Tell him he can publish and be damned.”

Peter nodded. “That’s one option. If he knows he can’t use that information to get anything out of me, he might decide to forget about it. Or he might keep coming back, asking for different things, trying to wear me down until I’ll give him something for it. Or he might decide to turn me in to the Bureau anyway. If I had to make a bet, I’d say Caffrey’s the type to take ‘publish and be damned’ as a dare.”

“What’s the other option?” Elizabeth had been watching too much television lately; part of her feared that Peter was about to say, ‘Put a hit out on him.’ But she knew Peter wouldn’t really say that.

“Turn myself in, before he has a chance to. I’d have a better chance of avoiding a perjury charge that way, and we’d…know what was coming. Get it over with fast. I…don’t know which we should do.”

Elizabeth didn’t, either. Before she could think of an answer, she smelled something burning in the kitchen, and ran in to save what she could of dinner. Fortunately, it wasn’t completely ruined, and neither of them was very hungry anyway. 

As they picked at their food, they tried to make ordinary conversation, but neither of their hearts was in it. Peter kept returning to the subject of what kind of job he could get as a disgraced, perjuring former FBI agent, and suggesting that perhaps Elizabeth’s parents would take her in if he was unable to support her. 

“That’s not going to happen,” she said firmly. _She_ could support them, if Peter really couldn’t find another job. But he would find something, she was sure of that. 

“I never meant for this to happen, El,” Peter said sincerely. “I never meant to do this to you.”

“ _You_ aren’t doing anything to me,” she said. “Neal Caffrey’s doing this to _you_. Prick,” she added, as an afterthought.

Peter almost smiled at that. “He wouldn’t be able to do it if I hadn’t lied about it in the first place.”

And Peter wouldn’t have lied about it if he didn’t have good reason to believe that he wouldn’t be accepted as an FBI agent if he told the truth. “It’s not your fault people have stupid ideas about Guides.”

They turned the question around and around, looking for another solution, but ended up going to bed without making a decision. Peter kept gingerly to his own side of the bed, as if he thought this might have changed something between them. As if she had married Agent Burke, and not Peter. Elizabeth pulled him close and made love to him fiercely, claiming him once again as hers.

In the morning, over breakfast, Peter said, “I think…I want to tell Hughes.” He watched closely for her reaction.

“Rip off the band-aid.” She nodded. “I think you’re right. Once we know what’s going to happen, we can plan what to do next.”

“But if I don’t say anything, it’s possible nothing will ever have to change,” Peter reminded her. “Maybe Caffrey won’t say anything, either.” 

“And waiting to find out will eat you up inside,” Elizabeth said. “I know you.”

She wasn’t the type of wife to hand her husband his briefcase and wave at him from the door as he drove off to work—she had her own briefcase to keep track of, and which of them left the house first on any given day depended on her schedule—but today, she walked Peter to the door and kissed him. “I’m proud of you, Peter Burke.”

#

Agent Hughes, Peter’s boss, had meetings and conference calls all morning, so Peter couldn’t get an appointment with him until after lunch. He sat at his desk, barely pretending to work, worrying that any moment Caffrey might be calling Hughes to turn him in. But that was stupid—he’d told Caffrey he was going to discuss the matter with his superiors; surely he’d give Peter time to do that before he took any drastic action. 

The delay did give him time to think of a new and horrifying possibility. If he _was_ prosecuted for perjury, he could be sentenced to a federal penitentiary—such as, say, Attica. Making Peter Caffrey’s cellmate would certainly solve the problem of finding him a Guide. 

It was wildly unlikely—people didn’t get sent to prison for that sort of thing, not unless they were serious criminals who had managed not to get caught doing anything else. And even if he was, there would be no reason to send _him_ to a Supermax. But the possibility was just real enough that he couldn’t rule it out. 

Finally, the time for his appointment rolled around, and he reported to Hughes’s office, trying not to think that he was walking to his doom. 

“Peter. Have a seat. What’s on your mind?”

He sat. “You know I met with Neal Caffrey yesterday,” he began.

“Yes. He had something interesting to say?”

“Sir, I have to report that I’ve been compromised.”

“Compromised? How?”

“I’m an UnRegistered Guide. Caffrey knows.”

“ _You’re_ a Guide?” Hughes sounded disbelieving. Peter didn’t blame him. The idea of a Guide working in law enforcement _without_ a Sentinel was laughable. Guides who were partnered with Sentinels were obsessively dedicated to their welfare, caring far more about making sure their Sentinels were comfortable and happy than about solving cases. Guides who chose not to work with Sentinels still tended to go into nurturing fields—teaching nursery school was the job that sprang to mind. Peter did look out for his junior agents, but he didn’t hug them and ask about their feelings. He wasn’t anything like a Guide, except that he was one. 

“Yes, sir. I knowingly lied on my selective service paperwork and on my federal employment application. I’m aware that this is a firing offense.”

“It is. You’re—you’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“How does Caffrey know?”

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted. “But he does.” He outlined Neal’s proposal.

“What did you tell him?”

“That I’d discuss it with my superiors.”

Hughes nodded, looking thoughtful. “Don’t clean out your desk just yet, Peter. I’m going to have to take this upstairs. Given your exemplary service record, and the fact that you came forward with this immediately, there might be something we can do.”

That was better news than Peter could have hoped for. He’d never expected to come out of this still having a job—and it was by no means guaranteed that he would, but at least there was a chance. After calling El with the good news, Peter worked hard for the rest of the afternoon, to make up for spending the morning woolgathering.

#

“Caffrey. Hey, man, snap out of it.” Something jostled Neal’s shoulder, restoring him to awareness. 

“Okay, Christ, you don’t have to yell.” He looked up at Monaghan, the trusty who worked in the infirmary. “What are you doing in here in the middle of the night?”

“It’s morning, fool. You want your breakfast or not?”

“God, no.” The door to his room was propped open while Monaghan was in here; looking out into the infirmary, Neal could see that he wasn’t lying—it was really morning. He must have been sitting up, dead to the world, all night. Zoning out, it was called. 

That was bad, Neal knew. It was one of the things that happened to you if you didn’t have a Guide. Not as painful as the sensory spikes, but in a place like prison, even more dangerous. If he’d done that out in gen pop, God only knew what would have happened to him. 

It shouldn’t be happening yet—it was only three days since Peter had been here. He hadn’t stayed long—Kate always stayed the full hour that she was allowed—but he’d been right here in the room, not separated by Plexiglass. That should have helped. 

Neal had thought that if Peter didn’t agree to his plan, it would at least buy him another week or so to figure out something else, before his senses went even further out of control. But he’d only gotten three days, and he hadn’t had any better ideas in that brief reprieve. 

Maybe Peter would come back, if only to tell him ‘No.’

#

Two days after their original meeting, Hughes called Peter into his office. Since then, he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, trying to both prepare for the worst and hope for the best. If he _was_ fired, he supposed he could consider jobs in private security and accounting, but in both fields, only the less reputable firms would be willing to overlook his record. The hoping for the best part, he mostly delegated to Elizabeth.

“Shut the door, Peter. Have a seat,” Hughes said, when Peter arrived at his office.

He did so.

“Agent Burke, a disciplinary notation has been placed in your file regarding the falsification of your employment application. Read this.” Hughes handed him a triplicate form. “And sign at the bottom to indicate that you have received notification of this disciplinary notation.”

Peter read the sheet, dumbfounded. It explained what he’d done and offered to lines for him to sign, one if he agreed with the statement and another if he wished to appeal it. This was the slap-on-the-wrist form, the one you got if you weren’t actually being punished. If you were suspended or demoted, there was a different form. He wasn’t sure _what_ kind of forms you got if you were fired, but this definitely wasn’t it. “Thank you, sir,” he said, signing on the line that said he agreed and did not wish to appeal. “Do I keep one of these?”

“Yes, the bottom copy.”

Peter tore that one off and handed the rest back to Hughes. 

“You’re expected to schedule re-testing by the Human Resources Sentinel-Guide liaison within the week,” Hughes continued. “If the testing reveals a change in your status, as you’ve indicated it will, you’ll be required to comply with Registration requirements if you wish to remain a federal employee. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, sir. I’ll Register.”

“Good. HR wishes me to stress that since your status was not known at the time of recruitment, you will _not_ be receiving the standard Guide recruitment bonus at either today’s rate or the rate provided at the time you originally joined the Bureau.”

“Of course.” Peter hadn’t even known there _was_ one. 

Hughes handed him another set of papers, these printouts of a typed letter, rather than a standard form. “Sign all three copies of this, indicating that you understand and agree to these conditions of continued employment, and keep one copy.”

Peter did so. 

“Now,” Hughes said. “After... _extensive_ discussion, we’ve decided that, carefully managed, Caffrey could be a valuable asset to this division—if he can be controlled.”

“You want to give him his deal?” Peter realized belatedly that he probably shouldn’t argue with the man who had just spared him from firing, poverty, and criminal prosecution. Hastily, he said, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Subtracting the element where he has a compromised agent under his thumb, we think it could be a good idea. White collar has never had a Sentinel before—they usually go for terrorism or violent crime—and this may be the best chance we have to get one. And he does have extensive experience in many of the areas we investigate.”

“He does,” Peter agreed. 

“Plus the Bureau of Corrections would owe us one for taking him off their hands. We contacted them about this proposal, and they’re on board—we didn’t mention your…situation, just that we had an Agent who could serve as both his Guide and handler. One of their concerns is that any civilian Guide he has access to, he’s likely to be able to manipulate into helping him escape again. But you know all his tricks, so you might have a shot at keeping him in line.”

“You want _me_ to be his Guide?” Peter hadn’t understood what Hughes was getting at—even when he said, ‘an Agent who could serve as both Guide and handler,’ he’d thought, ‘There’s an Agent who’s a Guide? Who?’ 

“Yes, Peter. You’re uniquely qualified to take on this responsibility—there are a handful of other Guides who have full Agent status, but none in New York, and they all already have Sentinel partners anyway. The Bureau wants this, and you’re the only one who can make it work.”

“Yes, sir.” Somehow, this was a possibility he hadn’t thought of—that the Bureau would keep him on, but as a Guide. Compared to losing his job entirely, being forced into the role he had lied in the first place to avoid didn’t sound so bad. He supposed. “What about my…other responsibilities?” He was in charge of his own team, his own investigations. That was not a usual role for a Guide—Sentinels were often team leaders, but Neal, obviously, couldn’t be. Being placed under another Agent’s authority—one of his erstwhile equals or subordinates—would be humiliating, but he supposed he didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.

Hughes’s answer was reassuring. “I’m confident you can manage both. We’ll have to monitor the situation, but we’re thinking Caffrey can simply be assigned to your team.”

That implied he would still _have_ a team. He wasn’t going to lose anything—except not being a Guide. Which he already was, anyway. 

Hughes went on, “Putting a Guide in a position of leadership over a Sentinel Agent would be a problem, but he’s not an Agent. If he’s not able to accept your authority, we can send him back to prison.”

“Yes, sir.” Realizing that he _did_ have to accept Peter’s authority would be a rude awakening for Neal, a reversal of both the normal Sentinel-Guide power dynamic and of what he had hoped to gain by using Peter’s secret against him—but Neal didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, either. He had asked for this arrangement, and if he didn’t like it, he could put up with whatever alternative the Bureau of Corrections developed. 

“Good. While we can’t condone Registration evasion, your status as both an experienced Agent and Guide does make you a valuable asset to the Bureau. We have high hopes for this arrangement with Caffrey, but if he proves unmanageable, we still come out ahead. With a Guide already in the department, white collar might be able to recruit a Sentinel Agent, for starters. Apparently a number of Sentinels prefer to work with a Guide who knows how to handle himself in the field, if they have a choice.”

Hughes’s meaning was clear: he still had a job because the fact that he was a Guide made him valuable enough to overlooking having lied about it. If he could make things work with Neal, he could keep his position and his team, with the added responsibilities of being a Guide. If he couldn’t, he wouldn’t get out of being a Guide. Whatever other position the Bureau found for him, it would be as a Guide, subordinate to a Sentinel. “I’ll be able to manage him,” Peter said. 

“I hope so.” He handed Peter a thick folder. “Review the requirements of your new position, and give me written acknowledgement by Friday, along with the results of your re-testing. We’d like you to pick Caffrey up no later than this weekend, to begin work on Monday.”

#

“Hi, Rebecca,” Neal said, raising his hand as much as the restraints would allow him and waving. When the inmates out in the main ward started calling out, ‘Hey baby’ and worse, he had known, somehow, that it was her they were leering at. 

She smiled back nervously. “Hi, Neal.” Rebecca was a Guide that the prison had found somewhere and brought in to sit with him two days days ago, when another several-hour zone out had been followed by sensory spikes that made him so nauseous he couldn’t keep anything down. He’d been strapped down on a gurney for that visit, too, although for most of it he had been too ill to care. 

He wasn’t sure why she had been called in again so soon—he wasn’t feeling _that_ bad, yet. He’d asked the orderlies when they put the restraints on, but they hadn’t said. Since he was reasonably alert, he could have gotten out of the restraints, but he thought Rebecca would be scared half to death if he did, so he kept them on. 

“Everything all right, miss?” the guard at the door asked.

“Yes, thanks.” Rebecca sat down in the chair next to his gurney and gingerly took his hand. 

Last time, Neal hadn’t been able to figure out what her normal job was—she’d apparently been instructed not to tell him too much about herself—but it clearly didn’t take usually bring her into the prison or in contact with known criminals. Now, though, she wore a scrub top with teddy bears printed on it—something medical, probably with kids. “Nice to see you again,” he said.

She smiled tightly and looked away. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, actually.” He thought about adding something like, ‘Better now that you’re here,’ but he was fairly sure that anything that could be construed as even mild flirtation would not go over well. 

“That’s nice.”

“How was work?” Neal asked politely.

Rebecca cleared her throat. “Fine.” 

“Good,” Neal said. Casting about for a suitably neutral topic, Neal settled on the weather. “Is it raining out?” Rebecca’s hair was slightly damp. 

“Snowing, actually.”

“Hope you didn’t have to drive too far in it.”

“It’s just a flurry.” 

“Oh, good.”

“It’s supposed to warm up this weekend,” Rebecca volunteered.

“That’s nice.” Nice for some, anyway. Neal hadn’t been outside since his escape, having been first on disciplinary lockdown and then in the infirmary. 

After a few more minutes of stilted conversation, the prison warden came into the room. “Thank you for coming,” he said to Rebecca.

“It’s no problem,” she said. “But I’m not sure why I was sent for—he doesn’t seem to be in sensory distress.”

“No,” the warden agreed. “I’m sorry; it should have been explained to you. We have to discuss future arrangements for his custody, and it’s important that he be mentally competent to consent to the new arrangements.”

“I see,” Rebecca said. Neal _didn’t_ see. What arrangements? 

“Ideally, we shouldn’t need your services again,” the warden added to Rebecca.

“Oh. Good. I mean, we could use the extra money, but I don’t really like coming here.”

“Understandable.” The warden turned to him. “Caffrey, the FBI has accepted your request for work-release.”

“ _Really_?” Peter’s response to the suggestion had been lukewarm at best, and when a couple of days had gone by with no word from Peter, Neal had resigned himself to the fact that it wasn’t going to happen.

“Yes. Your release is conditional on good behavior and on fulfilling the duties expected of you to the satisfaction of your custodial agent. If you fail to meet these conditions, you will be returned to this facility. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course,” Neal said. 

“Additionally, if you accept this arrangement, you will be expected to serve the remainder of your sentence without possibility of parole, whether you remain on work-release for the remainder of the sentence or if you are returned here for failure to comply with the conditions of your release. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will not be paid for your service. Your custodial agent will make arrangements for your board and housing.”

“Okay.” That was pretty much what he had expected. 

“Sign here to indicate that you accept and understand these conditions,” the warden instructed, positioning a document under his restrained right hand.

Neal wasn’t given a chance to read what he was signing, and it was fairly difficult to sign without moving his arm, but he managed. “The, um, custodial agent. Is it Agent Burke?” He wasn’t sure who _else_ it would be, but the warden hadn’t said. 

The warden glanced at the papers Neal had just signed. “Yes. Peter Burke.”

“Good. Great.”

“He’ll be picking you up this Sunday.”

“Looking forward to it.” He was going to get to see that nice weather, after all.

#

After discussing Hughes’s proposal with Elizabeth, Peter spent the next few days getting his Guide test done, filling out reams of paperwork both about his change in status and about his new role as handler of a work-release felon, and making preparations for Neal’s arrival. As his handler, it fell to Peter to figure out where he was going to live and to decide about how much freedom he was to have outside of work hours—whether to assign Neal a curfew, for example, and how big the radius on his tracking anklet should be. He decided to start out fairly lenient, so he’d have room to tighten things up if Neal proved uncooperative. The place he picked out for Neal to live was going to be enough of a blow, without requiring him to stay there staring at the grimy walls whenever he wasn’t working. 

As Guide and supervisor, Peter had to meet with HR about appropriate duties and working conditions for a Sentinel. Much of their advice he discarded as inappropriate. Sentinels liked having their own offices—“territory,” as the Sentinel liaison put it—rather than sharing space with other people. They liked setting their own hours and their own tasks. They preferred to choose who they worked with, and getting them to cooperate with someone they’d taken a dislike to was considered an exercise in futility. The HR liaison didn’t seem to realize that _anyone_ would have liked being given their own way as much as possible, not to mention having someone—AKA a Guide—whose entire job was to indulge their whims. 

The Bureau had to keep Sentinel Agents happy—their abilities were so valuable in law enforcement that they could write their own tickets; if the Bureau wouldn’t keep them in the style to which they were accustomed, they would have no trouble finding another agency that would. Neal, on the other hand, couldn’t go shopping for another job that would give him the perks he wanted. Peter wasn’t going to go out of his way to make him miserable—in fact, he resolved to be scrupulously fair. But Neal would have a desk in the pit like everyone else, would work the hours Peter worked, on the tasks he was assigned, and cooperate with anyone Peter damn well told him to. If being treated like any other new guy on Peter’s team wasn’t good enough for him, he was welcome to go back to prison any time he liked. 

But, since he was resolved to be fair, Peter had to take Neal’s legitimate needs into account. For instance, Sentinels needed proximity to a Guide to control their senses. Peter couldn’t stick him at the only available desk—clear across the room from Peter’s office—any more than he could put someone in a wheelchair in a spot accessible only by stairs. The desk next to the stairs leading to the upper deck would put Neal’s work space as close to Peter as he could reasonably get, so Peter made the Agent who currently had that spot switch to the empty desk. That arrangement also put Neal where Peter could easily keep an eye on him, which couldn’t hurt. 

As team leader, he had to brief his people on their new colleague—which also meant telling them about his own Guide status. With Hughes’s approval, he elided over the fact that he had previously lied about that status, implying instead that it had simply not been relevant before, because he hadn’t been working with a Sentinel. In the general briefing, a murmur went up at the announcement. Several people were outright disbelieving; one asked if Peter’s wife was a Sentinel. Peter stared at him for a second, then said, “No,” and went on describing Neal’s background and what Peter and Hughes hoped he would be able to bring to the department. 

After that meeting, he called Agents Jones and Berrigan to his office. As the two people he worked with most closely, he expected them to have more questions than the others. He also wondered if, as visible minorities themselves, as well as coworkers and friends, they would be bothered that he had kept this secret from them. He was unsure whether to tell them the full story—Hughes had said it was up to him—but when Diana said, “We don’t ask, we don’t care, right, boss?” he decided he should.

“This, we do ask about,” Peter said. “It’s been decided that this is not something everyone needs to hear about, but the two of you should know. I was UnRegistered; I only came forward because I was compromised. I didn’t think I’d be taken seriously as an Agent if it was known I was a Guide, so I lied about it. I’m lucky to still have a job, and if either of you would like to be reassigned, I’ll expedite the process.”

Jones and Diana exchanged a look. “I have a great-aunt who passed for white, back in the day,” Jones said. “You do what you have to do. I don’t have a problem with it.”

“I have friends who pass for straight _now_ ,” Diana added. “Working for the place that asks. You do what you have to do,” she echoed. 

“Thank you,” Peter said, genuinely touched by their support. Briskly, he moved on. “Now, about the Dutchman case….”

#

“One more thing,” Peter said as he pulled out of the prison parking lot. 

“What?” Neal asked. Peter had gone over all of the details of his work-release arrangement, making Neal repeat them back to him, before they’d let him out of the prison infirmary. It all sounded pretty much like what he’d expected: tracking anklet, serve the remainder of his sentence without parole, back inside for life if he ran. The only surprise had been that they’d set his anklet for a two-mile radius around his official residence; apparently, during non-working hours he would be allowed to move freely around that area. He’d been prepared for house arrest. 

“Your plan didn’t work.” 

Neal glanced down at the anklet, over at Peter, and around at their surroundings: Peter’s Ford Taurus, outside the prison walls and just now merging onto the highway. It certainly looked like it was working to him. “It didn’t?”

“I already told my superiors at the FBI.”

“Told them what?” Obviously, Peter had had to clear Neal’s work-release through his superiors; he hadn’t expected it to be a big surprise when he showed up at the office tomorrow. 

“That I’m a Guide.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “That was sort of the point. I’m a Sentinel; you’re a Guide; together we fight crime?”

“Exactly. That’s what we’re going to do, and if you so much as put one toe out of line, I’m shipping your ass back to prison.”

“Right,” Neal said. That was how he understood the arrangement. “I get it, Peter. I’m going to be good.”

“Yes, you are.”

“So…how did my plan not work?”

“You can’t manipulate me by threatening to tell my superiors that I’m an Unregistered Guide, because I’m not. Anymore.”

“You were Unregistered?” 

“Now you’re going to try to pretend you didn’t know that?”

“How would I know that?”

“How did you know I was a Guide?”

Neal gestured at him. “It’s…obvious! I noticed that time I talked to you outside the bank.” Neal wasn’t sure exactly _how_ he knew, and he didn’t know if he recognized all Guides, but every once in a while, he’d see someone and think, ‘Oh, there’s a Guide.’ He’d wondered at the time if the Feds knew he was a Sentinel and put a Guide in charge of his case on purpose. “Wait, don’t government employees _have_ to Register?” He was a little hazy on the subject, never having had a job himself, but he knew it was hard for UnRegistereds to find legitimate work, unless they concealed their Sentinel or Guide status. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Peter said. “Which is why, when I found out you knew I was UnRegistered, I had to tell my superiors that I was compromised.”

“Compro—wait a second.” Neal was a fast thinker, but it took him a few moments to catch up. “You thought I knew you were UnRegistered, and I was, what, _blackmailing_ you?”

“Yes. And it didn’t work.”

“I wasn’t. I assumed you were Registered. I wouldn’t have--” Was he sure he wouldn’t have? Guides knew when a Sentinel lied to them; Kate always had. “Okay, if I had known, I might have tried that,” he admitted. It wouldn’t have been his first choice, since it would leave him working with a Guide who had good reason to hate him, but if there hadn’t been any better options, he might have. “But I didn’t know.” 

“Sure you didn’t.”

Peter had to know he was telling the truth; there was no point protesting. He’d admit it to himself eventually. “What did you do, _lie_ on your FBI application?” That was hard to imagine; Peter was such a law-and-order guy. Neal wouldn’t have pictured him cheating on his taxes, either. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I did.” 

“Why?” All of the UnRegistereds he knew were Unregistered because they didn’t want to end up forced into working for the government. Peter…already worked for the government. Even if the Sentinel-Guide draft was reinstated, they’d probably leave him right where he was. “Lots of Guides work for the FBI.” 

“Yeah, they do,” Peter said. “As _Guides_. I wanted to be an Agent, not follow a Sentinel around holding his hand all day.”

“Then why did you agree to this?” Neal gestured between them.

“ _Because_ ,” Peter said, through gritted teeth, “after I went to my superiors and confessed to falsifying my application, which is a firing offense, they asked me to do this instead.” 

Oh. So, in a way, Peter actually was being blackmailed, even though Neal wasn’t the one doing it. “Um, sorry. I didn’t know that would happen.” How could he have known that Peter the FBI Agent was UnRegistered? He could still hardly believe it, even though Peter had said so, twice. 

“What, you just thought I hadn’t found the right Sentinel and would leap at the chance to Guide a criminal?”

Neal hadn’t really thought about it from Peter’s perspective at all. Somewhere, in the middle of one of numerous meetings where prison officials had repeated that they had no idea what they were going to do with him, he had thought about his second arrest. He’d been feeling sick ever since Kate had said goodbye—nauseous and dizzy, everything too loud, too bright, too much. Breaking out hadn’t helped as much as he had hoped, and he’d been sitting in their empty apartment, holding onto the bottle that still had a few traces of her scent on it, trying not to throw up and knowing that he was too sick to keep running…and then Peter had shown up. Immediately, the queasiness subsided and things took on their normal proportions. He’d felt normal again for a couple of days, after. So when he’d realized that the prison officials were at so much of a loss that they might be open to a suggestion from him, he’d thought of Peter. “I wasn’t really expecting it to work at all. We have—had—kind of a rapport, from when you were chasing me.” The past tense was, he supposed, appropriate, since he had essentially ruined Peter’s life, albeit unintentionally. “I thought there was a chance you might go for it.” He had insisted on telling Peter about his idea in person because at least that way, he’d get to be in the same room with him again, and get a few more days’ relief from his senses. 

“A rapport,” Peter said. 

“I always liked you.” And he’d thought Peter liked him, too. Maybe he had. But it didn’t sound like he did now—he has much as said that being forced to Guide a criminal was a punishment from his superiors. “I’m really sorry,” he said again. “I really don’t need my hand held,” he offered, hoping that would be some consolation. “I got by fine on weekly no-contact visits with Kate. You won’t have to do anything special.”

“I know,” Peter said. 

They didn’t talk for the rest of the drive into Manhattan. When Peter showed him the place he had picked out for Neal to live, Neal’s first thought was that he must be joking. His second was _He really does hate me_. “You’re not _leaving_ me here?” The lobby smelled like urine, cheap beer, and body odor; Neal couldn’t even think about what the beds must be like without shuddering.

“You got by fine on weekly no-contact visits from Kate,” Peter reminded him. “There’s no way I’m going to buy you need overnights.” 

“Sorry,” Neal said. “I meant, you’re not leaving me _here_?”

“It costs 700 a month to house you on the inside; that’s what the Bureau pays to house you on the outside. For the money, this is what you get.”

For the money, sure. But Neal had resources other than the Bureau’s $700 a month, if he could get to them. “What if I--”

“You have no other legitimate source of support,” Peter interrupted. “If you’re not living on the Bureau’s 700 a month, you’re violating the conditions of your release by engaging in criminal activity, which means--”

“My ass is back in prison,” Neal finished for him. “What if I find something else for 700 a month?”

“If you find something better, for 700 a month, and it’s inside your radius? Take it.”

He supposed that was the best he could do; Peter would probably be within his rights to forbid him to even try to make other arrangements. “What about clothes? I’m wearing my entire wardrobe.” He had some personal belongings stashed with his various caches, but somehow, he hadn’t thought to locate any of them within two miles of the FBI.

“They cashed out your prison account, right?”

Neal nodded. Kate and his other friends had kept his account topped up at the maximum allowed, but that was only a couple hundred dollars. 

“There’s a thrift store at the end of the block.”

Neal winced. Secondhand clothes, that smelled like mothballs and other people? 

“If you prefer orange jumpsuits, I’d be happy to drive you back to prison.” 

“Thrift store,” he said. “How fun. Looking forward to it.”

“That’s the spirit. Here’s your homework.” He handed Neal a thick file. “See you at 7 AM.”

Peter left. Neal took his room key from the desk clerk, trying not to look as if he didn’t want to touch it, and went to check out his new home.

#

Peter’s first thought when he saw Neal’s note was that he’d been played for a chump. Last night, after talking with Elizabeth, he’d started to wonder if he’d judged Neal a little too hastily. As she had pointed out, if he hadn’t _said_ that he knew Peter was an UnRegistered Guide, it was possible that he had assumed Peter was Registered, as he was supposed to be. When Peter thought back on their first meeting at Attica, he realized that nothing Neal had actually said indicated that he was blackmailing Peter—that was just Peter’s guilty assumption on hearing that his secret was known. 

So sticking him in that crummy motel may have been a little…spiteful. True, $700 a month did not go far at all in Manhattan, but Neal could have lived outside Manhattan and taken the train in, like thousands of other people did. If Peter had applied a little creativity and effort to the problem, he probably could have thought of more options. Peter even planned a little speech about how Neal should just put up with it for a little while, and once they weren’t so frantically busy with this case, Peter would help him figure out something else. 

Then he got to the motel and found a complete and startling absence of Neal, and a little note saying, “I have moved 1.6 miles” and an address. God only knew what he’d find when he got to the address; Peter seriously considered calling for backup before going there. 

It was a good thing he hadn’t—he’d never have lived it down. He found Neal cozily established in a mansion on Riverside Drive, living with an older lady he had, apparently, met yesterday. “You said,” Neal reminded him, “that if I could find something better for seven hundred a month, inside my radius, I should take it.” He gestured at the rooftop deck, the view, the fully-furnished studio apartment. “This is better.”

“And it’s seven hundred a month,” Peter said, letting his skepticism show.

“I help out around the place. Walk the dog, wash the cars, help her granddaughter with her homework—honest work.” Neal smiled brightly. 

“Tutoring? Does she know--” Peter stopped as a young woman joined them on the deck. “Hi.”

“You must be Peter. Good morning. Hi, Neal.”

“That’s the granddaughter?” Peter asked once the girl was out of earshot.

Neal nodded. “She’s an art student. I happen to know a lot about that--”

“Yes, I know.” Before Peter could say anything else, the homeowner, Neal’s new landlady, came outside, with a pug on a leash. 

“Morning, June,” Neal said cheerfully. “You met Peter?”

“I did,” she agreed. Sitting down at the little table where Neal was eating breakfast, she poured a cup of coffee. “Coffee, Agent Burke?”

“We really need to get going,” Peter said, looking over at Neal, who wasn’t even dressed. 

June just smiled, and Peter found himself sighing, sitting down, and accepting a cup of coffee. “Did you have enough breakfast, Neal?” she asked him.

“Yes,” Neal said. “Thank you. Everything’s lovely. Isn’t this great coffee, Peter?”

Peter had to agree that yes, it was great. “I don’t know how much Neal told you about his situation,” he began.

“Oh, yes, I know he’s had a little trouble with the law,” June said. “And now he’s on work-release with the FBI.” 

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Our Lord forgave the thief,” June said piously. “I consider it my Christian duty to help set that boy’s feet on the righteous path. Much like you’re helping him pay his debt to society.” She nodded approvingly. “Very charitable.”

“I wasn’t aware that Neal was particularly religious,” Peter said, looking at him. Now this was starting to make sense. Neal had probably picked up on some cues about June’s faith—maybe she’d been wearing a cross, or had a pew bulletin in her purse—and reeled her in with a story about being a repentant sinner. 

“June is a woman of strong beliefs,” Neal said. “I respect that.”

“I hope to introduce him to the other ladies at church some Sunday,” June added. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Neal said. “My duties with the FBI permitting, of course.”

“Speaking of,” Peter said, “go get dressed. We’re already late.”

Neal jumped instantly to his feet. “Of course. You know how it is, first morning in a new place. Takes some time to work out your routine. I’ll be ready before you know it.” He disappeared inside. 

Peter tried to think of some way to make clear to June that Neal was taking advantage of her, but there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be insulting. Neal had already admitted to being a criminal, and Peter couldn’t say with certainty that he _wasn’t_ repentant. Peter personally doubted it, but June had as much right to form her own opinion on the subject as he did. All he had left was to say, “Did he mention that he’s a Sentinel, too?”

June nodded. “Yes. I was just thinking that the way this neighborhood has gone downhill, it isn’t safe for a woman and a girl alone. We’ll have so much more peace of mind with a man in the house, and a Sentinel, to boot! Very providential.”

All he could do was give June his card and request that she give him a call if she had any concerns about Neal’s behavior. That, and once they were in the car and on their way, tell Neal, “If you rob, swindle, or otherwise take advantage of that nice lady, I will--”

“Ship my ass back to prison? I know.”

He seemed completely unconcerned about the prospect, and Peter wished he could threaten something more dire, but legally, that was the worst he could do. “So fast it’ll make your head spin.”

“That sounds completely fair,” Neal said agreeably. 

“Nothing about this is fair,” Peter said. “You break out of prison and get rewarded with a job everybody else busts their ass to get, and on top of it you have a million dollar view and a--” He gestured at Neal. “Thousand dollar suit--”

“About three dozen of them, actually,” Neal said. 

“— _handed_ to you. And somehow, you have that woman thinking _she’s_ the lucky one!”

Neal shrugged. “People like me. You know.” He looked at Peter measuringly.

“What?”

“I bet she wouldn’t mind if I gave you a few of Byron’s ties. He had hundreds.”

“Why would I want _Byron’s_ ties?” Somehow, the fact that Neal was on a first-name basis with his mark’s late husband was the cherry on this gigantic sundae of wrong. 

“Well, that way you wouldn’t have to wear that one.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with this tie.”

“Not unless you consider being _painful to look_ at something wrong, no.”

Peter looked down. It was a perfectly ordinary tie; one that he’d worn hundreds of times without complaints. “Is this a Sentinel thing?” he hazarded. 

“No, it’s a ‘person with taste’ thing. Seriously, Peter, _paisley_?” 

“Learn to live with it,” Peter advised him. 

“I’ll try,” Neal said dubiously.

At the Bureau, Peter introduced Neal to the receptionist and the administrative assistant, and pointed out the men’s room and coffee area. He didn’t mention that Neal would find the Bureau’s coffee a sore disappointment after June’s—he could make that discovery for himself. “And here’s your desk.”

Neal made a face. “Wow.”

“Problem?” If it really was a problem, he supposed he’d have to make some other arrangement, but he wanted to see some serious evidence first. 

“No, I’ve just never really been a desk guy before.” Neal poked at his phone and stapler as if expecting them to do something novel. “I _pretended_ to be a desk guy once, years ago.” He grinned. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me.”

“I’m right up there if you need anything,” Peter said, pointing out his office. He opened Neal’s desk drawer and took out a stack of papers and booklets. “Here’s your HR paperwork.” He flipped through it, looking for anything he had to explain. “Most of this you just have to sign where the flags are…make sure you read the sexual harassment booklet, though; there’s a quiz. They call you down sometime your first week and spring it on you, and if you don’t pass it you have to go to a seminar.” Peter hadn’t bothered reading the booklet and had only narrowly avoided the seminar, despite being a person with normal boundaries who respected women. Some of the answers were not intuitive. 

“Your primary emergency contact is me—I already filled that out—but you can put somebody else as secondary if you want to.” He didn’t know who Neal would put, other than possibly June, but he could. “Your Bureau physical’s tomorrow…oh, you don’t need that one.” He took the weapons certification form out of the stack; the Bureau was definitely not arming Neal, whether he could pass the certification test or not. “And then the rest of these are just the standard know-your-rights documents.” Neal had a larger than usual assortment of those; HR had decided to cover all the bases by giving him the packets for Sentinel inmates, work-release prisoners, criminal informants, and Sentinel employees, as well as the general ones that everybody got. “You just have to sign the top sheet on each one to say you received them; you don’t have to read them all. Most of this one,” he added, picking up the Sentinel employee’s manual, “doesn’t apply to you, but if there’s anything that’s not covered in one of the others….”

Neal nodded. “Okay.”

Peter glanced at his watch. “Get started on that. The rest of the team should be here soon.”

“I thought we were late,” Neal said.

“We are.” He had planned on having enough time to go through the HR stuff with Neal before the rest of the team arrived, but that wasn’t going to happen now. “I’ll be in my office.”

#

His first morning working for the FBI, Neal filled out his HR paperwork, studied for his sexual harassment quiz, met more FBI agents than he’d ever seen at one time when he wasn’t being arrested, and attended a meeting where he learned that two days before, a rare book dealer who was connected to the Dutchman in some way had been murdered in an airport. Neal would have expected the murder to be the first thing he learned about on starting his new job—it was too recent to be covered in the case file he’d gotten last night—but apparently indicating in triplicate that he’d been informed about his rights and learning the difference between quid pro quo and hostile environment harassment were more important. 

The rights documents didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t learned from his prison research—actually, they told him a lot less. The actual regulations were pretty vague; you had to go to the case law for details. He did glance over the Sentinel employee manual, to see all the rights he _didn’t_ have. For example, there was a complicated arbitration system for conflicts between Sentinels and Guides who were both employees, but Sentinel inmates only had a right to “appropriate Guidance,” which he knew from the case law was defined as the bare minimum, and if he had a problem with the Guide the prison system saw fit to provide, he was cordially invited to shut up about it. 

Still, he was feeling more optimistic about the arrangement than he had yesterday afternoon—a couple of decent meals and a good night’s sleep had helped a lot. And Peter was being, if not exactly friendly, not particularly hostile. And he’d apparently bought June’s performance, so Neal wasn’t going to end up back at the motel. After Neal explained that Peter wouldn’t be thrilled to learn the real reason that June didn’t object to having a felon in the house—that her husband had been one, too—he and June had put their heads together to come up with a more acceptable story. 

It was lucky that June had been able to field most of the questions—since she wasn’t a Sentinel, she could lie to Peter all she wanted. He’d had to rely on misdirection. It was certainly true that he admired June’s beliefs—particularly the ones about the fraternity of cons and the general advisability of lying to Feds, though he also had some appreciation for her belief that he would be an entertaining addition to the household. And she did occasionally go to church, and thought it would be funny to take Neal along and give the church ladies the impression that he was some kind of gigolo. There was no need to lie about looking forward to _that_. He was a little hurt that Peter thought that he would scam a nice lady like June, but really, it was all to the good—he was that much less likely to notice that June was helping Neal scam _him_. 

At noon, Peter appeared by his desk. “You busy?”

“Hm?” Was he supposed to be busy? “Just reviewing this file,” he said, implying that he was working, naturally, but could drop it to attend to any more important duties that Peter had for him.

“C’mon, I’ll take you to lunch.”

Oh. He carefully locked the file in his drawer—not that the lock would stop anyone with a paper clip and half an ounce of determination—and stood up. “Am I not allowed to go to lunch by myself?” The know-your-rights paperwork hadn’t covered that detail.

“No, you are. I usually take people to lunch on their first day.”

“Got it.” Peter was making a point of treating him like everyone else. That was good. Really. “Where are we going?” he asked as they got in the elevator. 

“You can have your choice of the hot dog cart or the pizzeria.” 

“Oh.” Neal didn’t bother trying to hide his disappointment. 

“I know you eat pizza; I’ve seen the surveillance photos.”

“I do; I was just hoping for something more special. You know, first lunch out of prison.” They were in downtown Manhattan, with hundreds of restaurants to choose from, and that was the best Peter could do?

“I might be more sympathetic to that argument if I hadn’t seen your first breakfast out of prison,” Peter said. “I didn’t get the impression you’re suffering.”

“While we’re on the subject, what am I supposed to do about food? My prison money isn’t going to last forever. June was kind enough to invite me to dinner last night, and of course breakfast this morning, but I don’t think she’s planning on providing three meals a day for seven hundred a month.”

“Plus your doubtless extremely valuable help around the house,” Peter said. 

“Well, that too. But I’m pretty sure the motel didn’t include meals, either.” If it _did_ —well, that was another bullet he’d dodged, but he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. 

“No, it didn’t,” Peter agreed, taking an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. “I forgot to give you this yesterday.” 

The envelope felt like a credit card, which seemed too good to be true—and was. “Food stamps,” Neal said, looking at the blue plastic benefit identification card. “And a Metro card.” 

“Your grocery budget is two hundred a month. Spend it wisely.”

“That’s not even remotely humiliating,” he observed. He’d seen people using those cards. The cashiers looked at them funny, especially if they bought anything that wasn’t generic.

“If you’d prefer the prison chow line--” Peter said as they walked through the lobby.

“You know, this is great, because I won’t have to choose between buying food and buying anything else. Speaking of, what am I supposed to do for toothpaste and toilet paper? You can’t get those with food stamps, and June’s already giving me a roof over my head and these five-thousand dollar suits.” Peter had dramatically under-valued them in his little rant earlier. 

“You also get a hundred dollars a month cash benefits, on the card.”

“How generous.” 

“It works out to $6.25 an hour,” Peter said. 

“That’s not even minimum wage.”

“But it is ten times the going rate for inmates of the federal penal system. Once again, if you’d prefer that, I’ll drive you back to Attica.”

“You’re going to say that every time I suggest that I’m anything less than deliriously happy with my circumstances, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Hot dogs are that way, pizza’s that way.” Peter pointed.

Neal set off in the pizza direction.

“If you really weren’t intending to blackmail me--”

“I wasn’t,” Neal interjected.

“—then you’re getting exactly what you asked for. If you don’t like it, you should have thought of that earlier.”

“I didn’t exactly think about details like toothpaste while I was figuring out how to get out of prison,” Neal admitted. “If I’m not allowed to do anything even the tiniest bit illegal—” He glanced over at Peter for confirmation that this was true.

“You aren’t. Do you understand that _not doing illegal things_ isn’t part of your punishment? It’s a basic life expectation. All of these other people--” He gestured at the crowded sidewalk and the line-up at the pizzeria counter “—get through the day without breaking the law.”

“I bet most of them break the law at least a little bit.” He pointed. “Look, that guy’s jaywalking.”

“You didn’t _jaywalk_ ,” Peter said. “You stole, forged, and otherwise misappropriated millions of dollars’ worth of private property.”

“Allegedly.” 

“Fine. You were convicted of $500,000 worth of forgery. That alone is much worse than jaywalking.” They reached the head of the line. “Two cheese slices and a diet Coke. What do you want?”

“Oh. One pepperoni and one sausage. And a Coke. And I know that was the face value of the bonds, but I didn’t clear that much. There’s a lot of overhead.” 

Peter nodded to the pizza guy. “Overhead,” he said skeptically. 

“Yeah. You have to buy a press, those aren’t cheap, and then there’s the paper and ink—you can’t just go down to Staples and pick that stuff up; you have to know a guy. And pay him for his expertise. Then most of what you make, you have to invest in the next job. Alleged job.”

“It’s not a _job_ ,” Peter said. “A job is when you exchange labor for money at an agreed-upon rate. I have a job.” He indicated the pizza guy. “This guy has a job. You had a _crime spree_.”

“ _Now_ I have a job,” Neal pointed out. Not that he had exactly agreed upon the rate, but he was getting the most important things he’d asked for, Peter as his Guide and not being in prison. He supposed that counted.

“Yes, you do, and if you want to keep it, stop bitching.”

Neal decided to stop bitching, for the moment at least. “Good pizza.” That should be an innocuous topic.

“Yes, if you work in the same place for a decade and a half, you learn where the good pizza places are.”

“Do you _ever_ say anything that doesn’t have a moral in it?” Okay, so the moment hadn’t lasted long. 

“I do when I’m not talking to criminals who don’t realize how lucky they are.”

“This is going to be a long four years.”

“I was just thinking that,” Peter agreed.

#

Over the next few days, Neal periodically paused in his constant litany of complaints to provide useful insights into the case. He worked out that the Dutchman had the rare book dealer buying up copies of _Snow White_ to use the end-papers as raw materials for a forgery, determined that the Goya bond held by the National Archives was a forgery, and located the forger’s initials hidden in the document. He also criticized everything Peter ate, wore, or drove (apparently June’s Jaguar cornered better than Peter’s Taurus; go figure); hit on Diana, Jones, three file clerks, and an archivist; and passed his sexual harassment quiz, despite having no apparent understanding of the concept as it applied to his own behavior. 

Neal’s work on the case demonstrated that he was a smart bastard, which Peter had already known, but his Sentinel abilities were not much in evidence. He’d detected the forgery by scent—you could still smell the gum Arabic, apparently, if you were Neal—but finding the forger’s signature had been the result of poring over the bond for hours with a magnifying glass, something any of them could have done. If they had thought to do it, that is. Peter wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed that it took him so long, or pleased to see that Neal was capable of sustained effort when he felt like it. 

When he didn’t feel like working, he resorted to dumb insolence. For instance, when Peter took him to examine the clothes and other effects of the dead book dealer, Neal had put on a pair of gloves, poked at the man’s jacket for a moment, then said, “What am I supposed to do here?”

“See what you can figure out about who killed him.”

“I don’t really know anything about murder.”

“You don’t have to know anything about murder. The evidence was sealed in the airtight bags less than an hour after his death. Who touched him in the period immediately before that?”

Neal shrugged. “Lots of people. He was on an airplane; they’re crowded.” 

“He wasn’t killed on the airplane; he was killed in the Customs holding room.”

“Sounds like you know more about it than I do.” Neal shrugged again. “How long do we have to stay here? I’m not really crazy about dead-guy clothes.”

“You’re wearing a dead guy’s clothes,” Peter pointed out.

“Byron didn’t die _in_ them.”

“Focus,” Peter said. “You’re not picking a fight with me to get out of this. Look at the dead guy’s clothes.”

Neal looked at them for several minutes, but concluded by saying, “I don’t know what you want me to say, Peter. Can I have a hint?”  
#

“Do you smell anything?” Peter asked as they stood pressed up against the door to the warehouse.

“Dog piss,” Neal said quietly. “Car exhaust. Ink.” 

“Ink, that’s good. Is it—what did you say he needed for the Goya? Iron gall ink?”

“How the hell would I know that?” He had been doing his best to be polite and cooperative, in the hopes that Peter would at some point stop regarding his presence as a punishment, but after several days of alternating between staring at FBI files and being dragged around New York and asked to listen to, look at, and smell things, his patience was wearing thin. 

“You’re the forgery expert,” Peter whispered back angrily.

“I’m an expert at _doing_ forgeries, not smelling them.”

Peter grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the car. For a moment, Neal thought he was taking him there to yell at him without the suspects overhearing, or maybe to tell him that if he couldn’t identify iron gall ink by smell he was no use whatsoever and might as well go back to prison. 

0But once they were in the car driving away, Peter took a deep breath and his scent got less ticked-off. “You’re right. A forensic Sentinel who was an expert in forgery would probably be able to identify scent evidence like that, but you’re not an FBI Sentinel.”

“I know,” Neal said. Peter hadn’t even wanted to Guide a real FBI Sentinel; it was probably even worse to be stuck with him. “I am trying, I just--”

“I know,” Peter said. “FBI Sentinels have classes on it, at Quantico. Scent discrimination, I think they call it. It’s a learned skill, not something you just pick up.”

“Okay.” He could work with that. “Then I can learn how to do it, too. Maybe not right this second. And not at Quantico, obviously. But I can figure it out.” The public library was inside his radius; he could start there. And Moz would help him, or find somebody to teach him, if it was the kind of thing you needed an expert for. It might be a problem if he had to pay for the lessons, but as long as Peter didn’t ask too many questions, he could use the money he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “The FBI has continuing education people for all kinds of stuff. There’s probably already somebody in New York, or if not, they can send somebody up.”

Oh. That would work too, he supposed. 

#

“We have to get Caffrey some training,” Peter told Hughes. 

“What kind of training?”

“Sentinel training. He’s never had any. It took me until today to figure out the reason he hasn’t been much use is that I’m asking him to do things he never learned to do.” Peter felt bad about that. He had never wanted to be a Guide, but now that he was forced into it, he wanted to be a good one. 

“Is it really a good idea to equip Caffrey with even more skills than he already has? We barely caught him before.”

“If he’s going to do the job we got him out of prison to do, he needs training.” Whether or not Neal had gone into this intending to do the job right—whether or not he had been planning to blackmail Peter into letting him escape—he deserved a fair shot at making this work. He had, apparently, been trying to do just that for the last several days, while Peter assumed he was being surly and obstructive. “And before, we didn’t know he was a Sentinel. While we’re training him, we can build a profile of what he can do, so if we do end up chasing him again we’ll have that.”

“All right,” Hughes said, “I’ll talk to human resources.” 

#

“Agent Burke, Sentinel Caffrey—good afternoon. I’m Bryan Ketner.” They were meeting for Neal’s first lesson in one of the FBI’s clean rooms, where Sentinel Agents examined evidence. 

Somehow, Neal had expected the FBI’s Sentinel teacher to be a Sentinel, or maybe a Guide. Bryan Ketner was neither. The room smelled like _absolutely nothing_ , apart from Neal himself, Peter, and Ketner, so it was obvious. “Hi,” he said. “You can call me Neal.”

“All right, Neal. Let’s start by getting an idea of what you can do. Which sense do you have the best control with?”

Neal glanced over at Peter. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Let’s start with hearing, does that sound all right?”

“Sure.” 

Ketner had him sit down at the table, where an old-fashioned boom box and some other things were laid out. He turned the stereo on. “What do you hear?”

Neal listened. “Nothing.”

Ketner tapped the volume button. “What about now?”

“Still nothing.”

They repeated the process a few more times. Neal started to wonder if this was some sort of elaborate practical joke, or maybe a test—did they think he was going to start lying about being able to hear things?

“You should be able to hear this,” Ketner said. “Where’s your dial?”

“My what?”

Ketner turned off the boom box and covered his face with his hands for a moment. “Okay. You have used your senses before, haven’t you? For cracking safes, and things like that?”

“Yes.”

“How do you control your senses when you’re doing that?”

“I…don’t, really.” Neal wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

“You obviously aren’t walking around all day with your hearing cranked up high enough to hear the tumblers in a lock; you’d go insane.”

“I crack safes by touch.” He wasn’t sure that was exactly relevant, but he wanted to establish that he wasn’t _completely_ incompetent. 

“Fine,” Ketner said. “You also aren’t walking around all day with your tactile sense cranked up high enough to do that; you’d still go insane. So how do you do it?”

“I just do.” Neal shrugged. “I mean, you’re right, once I start my sense of touch gets sharper.” Sometime it took a long time to go away, too, which occasionally came in handy, but more often was a gigantic pain in the ass, sometimes literally. 

“How do you make that happen?”

“I don’t. It just sort of kicks in.”

“It just sort of kicks in,” Ketner repeated. “So what do you do if you’re in the middle of robbing a bank or something, and it doesn’t sort of kick in?”

“Then I use a stethoscope, like everybody else.” 

“I see. What other kinds of things do you use your senses for?”

“Seeing the details in forgeries, sometimes. Matching colors.” Anticipating the next question, Neal added, “It just kicks in then, too. And if it doesn’t, I use a magnifying glass or try again later.” 

“What about…surely sometimes your senses ‘just kick in’ when you would rather they didn’t.”

“Yes,” Neal agreed. 

“What do you do then?”

“Sit very quietly and wait for it to go away, if I have a choice.”

“I’m surprised you’re still alive,” Ketner said under his breath. “Okay. We’re going to start at the very beginning. I want you to picture a dial that controls your sense of…let’s say touch.”

“What kind of dial?”

“Any kind. It’s just a dial. It has numbers on it.”

“Does this dial go up to eleven?” Neal wondered. 

Ketner covered his face with his hand again and muttered, “There’s always one. There’s only one of you, and there’s still one.” 

Apparently, the joke wasn’t as original as Neal had hoped.

Aloud, Ketner continued, “It can go up to eleven if you want it to. Right now it’s at five. I think. Right now, would you say that your sense of touch is at its baseline level? Where it normally is when it’s not causing you any discomfort?”

“Yes.” Neal decided not to point out that he knew what ‘baseline’ meant.

“Then it’s at five.” He slid a sheet of heavy paper across the table. “Touch this first line. Do you feel the dots?”

Neal nodded. “Sure. ‘The quick brown fox.’”

“You can read Braille?”

“Yes.” Obviously. He tried the next line. The dots were a little smaller, but he could read, “‘Jumped over the,’” next line, smaller still, “ ‘Lazy dog.’ And then it’s just gibberish.” 

“Try the fourth line.”

Neal did so. “I can feel that there are dots, but I can’t read them.”

“That’s fine. Remember your dial? Turn it up to six.”

Neal pictured the dial, and pictured turning it, but it didn’t help him feel the dots any better. He decided to try pretending it was the combination dial on a safe, but that didn’t help, either. “I don’t think it’s working.”

“It’s difficult to get the hang of it at first. Agent Burke?” 

Peter had been sitting at the table with them, looking slightly bored. “Yes?”

“I wanted to start by getting an idea of Neal’s abilities without assistance from a Guide, but that was clearly too ambitious. Let’s try linking up, and see if that helps.” To Neal, he asked, “Do you know how to do _that_?”

“Yes.” He hadn’t linked with Peter—Neal thought Peter wouldn’t want to, considering he didn’t like him, and to be honest Neal wasn’t looking forward to it much, either. “I had a Guide before.” They had linked sometimes when Neal’s senses stayed hyperactive after a job, and they needed to run away before he could start sitting quietly.

“His girlfriend,” Peter added. 

“I won’t ask what you used it for, since you didn’t have your dials,” Ketner said, with exaggerated primness. 

Oh, yeah. They had done that, too. Neal gave him a sheepish smile, then looked over at Peter. “How do you want to do this?” He and Kate had usually held hands—for the running, at least, not the other—but he wasn’t sure if Peter’s stated objection to Sentinel hand-holding extended to the literal or not. “Do you guys do that back-of-the-neck thing?”

“No,” Peter said firmly. 

“Hardly anyone does that anymore,” Ketner said, “outside of the movies, at least.”

“Like this,” Peter said, wrapping his hand around Neal’s wrist. His grip was warm and surprisingly comforting.

“Actually, usually…” Ketner began. “Never mind, that’s fine. Go ahead.”

Neal waited for Peter to open up to him. He didn’t. Okay. Kate usually made the first move when they linked, but then, he was usually trying not to puke, unless it was a sex thing. _Reach out and take my hand,_ she’d explained when she was trying to teach him how to do it, _but with your mind_. He reached, but instead of a hand gripping his, it was like grabbing a handful of smoke. He tried again, reaching harder.

“Ow,” Peter said. “Wait a second.”

He waited for Peter’s nod, then tried again, not quite so hard. This time, it was more like Jello than smoke.

“I think you almost had it there,” Peter said. “Okay, third time’s the charm.”

It was actually the fourth try, but that time Neal made contact. “Got it.” Peter’s link felt different from Kate’s, much more…reserved. Linking with her, he always got a clear sense of what she was feeling—the exhilaration of a successful heist mixed with concern for him when they were fleeing, more fun things at other times. He’d expected to feel anger or resentment from Peter, but instead he felt…not much. Peter was solidly _there_ , but just sort of…neutral. 

All right; this wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Good,” Peter said. “You’re doing fine…ready to try those dots again?”

They spent about three hours working on linking, dials, and dots. By the end, Neal was exhausted, like he’d spent three solid hours on his knees in front of a safe, and he didn’t even get the adrenaline rush of opening it. When Peter finally released his wrist for the last time, the table skewed in front of him.

“You okay?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, reality just went all Cubist on me for a second there.” It actually hadn’t gone back to normal yet, but he didn’t want to make a fuss.

“It’s normal to have increased sensory difficulties when you’re first learning,” Ketner said. “Remember your dials. And sitting quietly is fine, too.”

“We should be in the office the rest of the day,” Peter said, reminding Neal that, oh Christ, it was barely lunchtime. “Sitting quietly won’t be a problem.”

#

Neal looked a little pale as they left the clean room, and refused Peter’s offer of lunch, saying he had some things to work on at his desk. Peter left him to it, but when he got back from his own lunch, Neal had gone from pale to greenish. 

‘Increased sensory difficulties,’ Peter figured. “How are you holding up?”

“It’s very loud in here,” Neal said.

Peter looked around. At the next desk, someone was typing; across the room, two Agents were talking, and over in the break area the coffee pot was burbling. He supposed if you could hear the tumblers in a combination lock, all that was pretty loud. “You want to sit in my office for a while?”

“Can I?”

“Yeah. C’mon.”

Neal made a show of gathering up the files he was supposed to be working on, as if Peter was going to believe he was actually in a fit state to work. 

Well, maybe after he’d been sitting quietly for a while, he would be. 

#

Neal hadn’t really thought about what it _meant_ , when yesterday Peter had worked out the surveillance-van schedule, putting the two of them on for this afternoon. This morning was his Sentinel lesson, and even though he’d been having them for a few weeks now, they hadn’t gotten any easier. He always finished them exhausted and having what Ketner called ‘increased sensory difficulties’ and Neal thought of as ‘the ninth circle of hell.’ He never knew which sense was going to be going crazy on him, or how. It could be the burnt-coffee aroma from the break area filling his throat in a suffocating mass, or the tappity-tap-tap of computer keyboard keys pounding into his eardrums like spikes, or his clothes rasping across his skin like sandpaper. The visual distortions would have been entertaining if he hadn’t had to try to work through them—sometimes the effect was Cubist, sometimes Pointillist or Dali-esque. 

By unspoken agreement, Peter let Neal hole up in his office on lesson afternoons. It wasn’t really any quieter, or any less smelly in there, and visual perspective was just as likely to be skewed, but Peter was there, and that helped. Giving Neal the extra Guide-time must have been bearable for him as long as they didn’t talk about it. 

But now, after a brain-shattering scent discrimination lesson, Peter was taking him outside— _bright_ , Christ, couldn’t they turn down the sun for a minute?—and chivvying him into the car. It was a visual distortion day, with straight lines skewing dizzyingly and objects growing and shrinking without warning. After a pigeon that appeared to be the size of a Pterodactyl swooped in front of the windshield, he closed his eyes. That was one advantage of visual distortion—he could block it out if it got to be too much. But if he did, usually another sense decided to start acting up. True to form, shortly after he shut his eyes the smell of the car started pressing in on him—not too bad, since it was mostly Peter, with under-notes of gasoline, dog, and last week’s deviled ham. 

He didn’t realize where they were going until Peter parked behind a van marked ‘Municipal Utilities.’ “Oh my God,” he groaned. “Not the van.” He should have kept his eyes open and coped with the pigeon-dactyls. Even when he wasn’t in such a delicate state, the van was an assault on every sense except sight. 

“Where did you think we were going, the Bronx Zoo?” Peter got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Okay. Neal would just stay here. 

The door on his side opened. “Come on.”

“Peter, I cannot handle the van.” Part of the unspoken deal was that he did his best to keep working after his lessons, and didn’t complain or ask for any special treatment other than staying near Peter, but the van was too much. 

“Stop screwing around.”

Neal climbed out of the car, squinting against the sun. “I’ll be sick.”

“You will not.” Peter opened the back door to the van and gestured for him to go in.

“Can I go back to prison instead?” A nice, quiet cell—perhaps in Solitary—seemed like heaven compared to the van.

“No.” 

Inside, it was at least blessedly dim, but the smell of years, if not decades, of sweat, coffee, and lunches was almost palpable—literally, he thought he could feel it pressing on his skin, even though he was trying not to breathe—and every piece of equipment in there that didn’t buzz, squealed or hummed. So far, his hearing wasn’t bothering him much, but that could change at any time. 

He tried to take the seat closest to the door, both for the occasional whiff of fresh air and so that, when the inevitable happened, he could vomit outside and avoid adding to the miasma, but Peter said, “No, you’re not slipping out the moment my back is turned,” and made him sit in the middle.

“You okay, Caffrey?” Diana asked. 

Normally she was the only thing in the van, apart from Peter, that didn’t smell terrible, but there were two days in her monthly cycle when her scent went sour, and this was one of them. He groaned. 

“Neal, knock it off,” Peter said. “Use your dials. Wait a minute,” he said to Diana and took Neal’s wrist, opening a link.

He didn’t like to do that outside of the lessons, Neal knew. He’d better appreciate it, and stop being such a baby. Breathing shallowly, he tried to adjust his dials, even though he was frustrated almost to the point of tears with them from his lesson. 

“Better?” Peter said, not un-gently. 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Still holding on to Neal’s wrist, he took Diana’s verbal report on the morning’s surveillance. Neal didn’t bother trying to understand the words, but focused on her voice and Peter’s to block out the buzzing, humming, and squealing. 

After Diana left through the back door—letting in a welcome breeze—Peter asked, “Are you going to be all right now?” 

“I think so,” Neal said. And he did feel okay for the first minute or two after Peter released his wrist. He might have stayed OK if one of the surveillance techs hadn’t chosen that moment to take out his lunch, or even if had been something relatively unobtrusive, scent-wise. As it was, it was tuna salad, and that was simply too much for Neal to cope with.

Despite being in the middle of the van, he still managed to make it to the back door before he threw up. Under the circumstances, he thought the FBI ought to give him some sort of medal.

#

Peter was wondering if he ought to suggest that Jameson take his tuna sandwich outside—even Peter thought it smelled pretty rank—when Neal lurched out of his seat and staggered to the rear of the van, where, instead of fleeing for freedom, he bent over and vomited spectacularly. 

“Call Berrigan back,” Peter said to the others as he hurried to Neal’s side. 

Neal looked up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “Sorry,” before hunching over to throw up some more. 

Peter barely managed to stop himself from asking, ‘Why didn’t you _say_ something?’ Because, of course, Neal had—Peter just hadn’t believed him. Instead, he patted his back and said things like, “It’s okay,” and “Get it all out,” while Neal retched pathetically. 

Inside the van, Jameson called Diana, then came to the back with a bottle of water and a handful of fast-food napkins. “Does he want this? I opened it, but I didn’t drink out of it yet.”

“Thanks.” Peter accepted both the napkins and the water, and offered the latter to Neal when he finally stopped heaving. “Here, rinse your mouth out.”

Neal did so, swishing and spitting several times before swallowing a mouthful of water. He moistened the napkins with some of the remaining water, and used them to clean his face and hands. Finally, he said, “I told you I was going to be sick.” Neal looked around for a place to put the napkins, then dropped them in the puddle of vomit and sat heavily on the rear bumper of the van. His feet didn’t quite touch the ground, making him look oddly childlike. 

“Yes, you did,” Peter agreed. “I thought you were exaggerating.” Sitting next to Neal, Peter took his wrist again. Linking with Neal in their lessons always left him feeling frustrated, embarrassed, and—oddly—a little bit scared, so he was glad that Neal didn’t ask for it outside of lessons and didn’t go out of his way to offer. But this was clearly a time to cowboy up. 

After a moment, Neal formed the link. The process of linking, at least, was getting easier—it didn’t feel quite so much like Neal was clawing at his brain, looking for a way in. “You’re supposed to know when I’m not lying,” he said. 

Neal had alluded to that before, on occasions when he was saying something highly dubious but apparently couldn’t be bothered making a convincing case. 

Or, based on present evidence, possibly times when he was telling the truth and thought Peter was being an asshole about it. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“You’re my _Guide_.” Neal looked away. “I mean, _a_ Guide. Whatever.”

“And that means I’m supposed to be able to tell when you’re lying?”

Neal squinted up at him. “Kate always could. Only person I couldn’t lie to. Thought it was a Guide thing.”

“If it is, I’ve never heard of it. Might be a girlfriend thing.” Or a woman thing—Elizabeth wasn’t particularly good at telling when he was lying, but his mother sure had been. 

“You mean I’ve been telling you the truth all this time when I didn’t _have_ to?” It would have been funny if Neal hadn’t sounded genuinely distraught by the idea. 

“You should be telling me the truth,” Peter said, belatedly realizing that he’d given away a major advantage. 

“I have been.” 

“Okay.” At some point, Peter was going to have to work out what important things he’d assumed Neal was probably lying about, but this wasn’t the time. 

Neal sniffled and sighed for a moment, then said, “Can I please go home?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. If you threw up in the middle of the work day, you got to go home—that was pretty much a rule. “As soon as Diana gets back, I’m taking you home.” Looking over his shoulder into the van, he asked, “Is Berrigan on her way?”

“Yeah,” Jameson said. “She just got on the train when I called, so she has to get off and turn around at the next stop.”

Subway stops were pretty close together in this part of town. “Shouldn’t be long,” Peter told Neal. 

“I thought Diana was done for the day.”

“She was,” Peter said patiently, “but she has to come back since we’re not going to be here.”

“Oh.” Neal hunched forward a little. “I could take a taxi, so you can stay.”

“No, I’ll take you.” 

“I really am sick, Peter. I just want to go home and lay down. I’m not going to do anything.”

Neal must really think he was an asshole, if his first thought was that Peter had to be suspicious, rather than concerned. 

Then again, Neal had told him he was sick, and Peter’s response had been to tell him to stop screwing around. Asshole was a foregone conclusion. “It’s not that,” he said. “I think I ought to make sure you get there okay and get settled. As your Guide, not your handler.” 

Neal glanced up at him briefly. “…thanks.” 

Diana came out of the subway station a moment later. “Hi, Boss, Caffrey—you really don’t look good.”

Yes, everyone except the Guide could tell Neal was really sick. Great. 

Neal blinked up at her. “Thanks for coming back.”

“Sure,” she said. “I mean, if you’re sick, you’re sick.” 

After echoing Neal’s thanks, Peter took him back to the car. “You going to be okay if I let go now?” he asked, once Neal was settled in the passenger seat.

“I think so,” Neal said. 

“If you need me to pull over, just say so.” He didn’t think it would be a good idea to try driving while linked up with Neal. 

“Okay.”

They made it to June’s without Neal throwing up again. For once, Peter was glad that Neal had found himself this ridiculously cushy living situation—taking him back to the motel in his present state would have felt cruel. Actually, Peter had regretted the motel for some time, after seeing that Neal was genuinely trying to cooperate. He’d said it was the best he could find within the budget available, which was true, but he hadn’t tried all that hard. Asking around for people looking to rent out a room was an option he hadn’t even thought of. 

But he definitely wouldn’t have found anything like what Neal had managed for himself. Peter didn’t think it likely that Neal was helping out around the place enough to make up the difference between $700 a month and the fair market value of the apartment—unless he was providing his landlady with illegal services of some kind—but then again, June apparently hadn’t been planning to rent out the apartment at all, until she met Neal, and it hardly looked like she needed the money. 

At the front door, Neal fumbled with his keys until Peter took them from him and unlocked the door. Neal turned to him as if he was expecting Peter to deposit him on the doorstep and leave, but followed meekly when Peter said, “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

Once they were upstairs, Neal collected pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, moving cautiously, and went into the bathroom to change. Peter thought he had managed to avoid getting any vomit on his suit, but maybe there were traces not visible to the non-Sentinel eye. Peter heard him brushing his teeth in there—probably also a good idea—and he emerged appearing significantly less ill, but mussed and sleepy-looking. “I’m just going to—” he gestured at the bed “—lay down.”

“Okay.” 

Neal did so, stretching out on top of the covers. Peter considered the possibility that his responsibilities were discharged and he could go back to the van with a clear conscience. 

Probably not. Neal liked to be close to him after his lessons. Peter looked around for somewhere to sit and, finding nothing else, sat gingerly on the edge of Neal’s bed. 

Neal turned over to look at him. “You want something else?”

“I’ll just sit with you for a little while.” 

“Thanks. I know you don’t….”

“Don’t what?”

“Like doing this.” 

Peter couldn’t deny that sitting with a sick Sentinel was not high on his list of favorite activities. “It’s okay. So, you usually feel pretty lousy after your lessons?” Neal sometimes mentioned that things seemed too loud or too bright, and often held his head in a manner suggesting he had a headache, but Peter hadn’t thought it was this bad.

“Uh-huh.” 

“Worse than usual today?”

“No. It was just the van. It’s a ‘challenging sensory environment.’” Peter recognized that he was quoting one of the textbooks Ketner gave him to read. “I can manage in the office.”

“Right.” He had been, at least. “But if we had to go interview witnesses, or examine a crime scene, or something like that, after your lessons….”

“Yeah, I can’t promise anything.”

Even if they could arrange to never leave the office on Neal’s lesson days, having him spend two work afternoons a week hiding in Peter’s office trying not to throw up was neither productive nor particularly fair. “You still have to do them.”

“I know. I’m trying, I really am. It’s just harder than I thought it would be.”

“Yeah, me too.” He hadn’t spent much time around any of the Bureau’s Sentinels—a good thing, given that at least some Sentinels could apparently recognize Guides on sight—but from what he had seen, he’d gotten the impression that using their senses was pretty effortless. “Tell you what, let’s see if we can get them switched to the afternoons. If we do them from 2 to 5 instead of 9 to noon, most of the time you’ll be able to come home and recover on your own time.” Peter would probably have to stay with him for a little while, so he wouldn’t get home until 7 or so, but half the time when he did manage to leave the office at 5 it was because he was taking work home, anyway. He could read files or do paperwork here, and then be really _done_ by the time he got home. El would probably consider it a fair compromise for him to get home later but be, as she put it, ‘really there.’ 

“That sounds…better,” Neal said. “Yeah, I can make that work.” 

“It’ll depend on Ketner’s schedule, but I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Neal didn’t say anything else, and after a while his breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Peter stayed for another half-hour, just to make sure he was really all right, then slipped out.

#

As a direct result of Neal’s humiliating himself by throwing up and hanging all over Peter like a baby, his Sentinel classes changed from Tuesday and Thursday mornings to Wednesday and Friday afternoons. Giving up the afternoons in Peter’s office would be difficult, he thought, but being able to do any necessary vomiting in privacy was a reasonable trade-off. And the textbooks talked about how having ‘scent articles’ could help a Sentinel whose Guide wasn’t available. If he could figure out a way to steal something with Peter’s scent on it, he might be able to avoid vomiting at all. 

If. He could pretty easily steal a pen or something from Peter’s desk or pocket, but porous objects, like cloth, held scent better. Not even Neal was a good enough pickpocket to get Peter’s shirt off without him noticing. Too bad Peter didn’t carry a pocket square; that would be perfect. 

At least, Peter didn’t carry one now. Maybe Neal could give him some, as a gift…. If he got two sets of identical ones, he could swap them out. 

Definitely a worthwhile plan, but it would take some time to put into practice. Getting the pocket squares would be straightforward, but Peter would be suspicious, and therefore unlikely to use them, if Neal didn’t wait for a suitable gift-giving occasion. His birthday was months off, but perhaps with a little thought and research he could think of something—Peter’s anniversary with the FBI? The date of Neal’s first arrest? There had to be something. For now, Neal decided, the best bet was to get him to carry one without knowing he was doing it. Thus, on the first day of his new lesson schedule, he slipped a raw-silk handkerchief into Peter’s inside jacket pocket on the way to work, and slipped it back out at lunch. 

To Neal’s embarrassment, Ketner started the lesson by asking about the van incident. “So you’re still having a fair amount of trouble controlling your senses,” he concluded once they’d gone over the details.

“Yes,” Neal admitted. “You said that was normal,” he reminded him.

“It is, but I’m surprised it hasn’t started improving yet. You’re making good progress here; we’re nearly halfway done with the intermediate-level exercises.”

It was good to hear that Kenter thought he was doing all right—he hadn’t really said, although Neal had noticed that it had been a couple of weeks since Ketner had felt the need to cover his face with his hands and remark on how fortunate Neal was to be alive. Still, if they were soon going to be finished with the intermediate exercises, he was afraid to find out what the advanced ones might be like.

“Are you letting your Guide help you, outside of lessons?”

“Yes.” Neal supposed sitting in Peter’s office counted, and he certainly didn’t refuse any help Peter offered.

“You could be having more trouble because you’re a little older than average to be learning to use your senses,” Ketner said. “Most Sentinels get their initial training in college or the military, when they’re about eighteen or nineteen. It’s well known that Sentinels who emerge from latency—that is, ones whose senses were completely normal until activated by some traumatic experience—have a more difficult adjustment period than average. But yours weren’t latent, just undeveloped.” He shrugged. “In any case, more training should help improve your control. I thought we’d work on sight today….”

For three hours, Neal worked on reading increasingly small print and distinguishing among very tiny objects. Ketner frequently mentioned how these skills could be used to find and examine evidence, but to Neal, it sounded like it basically boiled down to, “Make yourself sick learning to do this, and you can avoid the hassle and inconvenience of carrying a magnifying glass!” He didn’t say anything about the color and perspective distortions that Neal experienced. 

The color distortions, he knew, could come in very handy when matching ink or paint. He’d worked out that, essentially, he was seeing the different wavelengths of light that made up the color of the sample. Even on a small sample, the angles between the light source, the sample, and his eye were different for different parts of the sample, so even if it was all the same ink, it looked different. If he could do it on command, it would be incredibly useful when, say, forging a bearer bond. Or, he supposed, telling that somebody else had forged it.

The perspective distortions, however, seemed like a nuisance without an up-side. Supposedly, Sentinel abilities had developed back in prehistory to help tribes hunt and fight off enemies, but Neal couldn’t see how anyone could hunt or fight anything if they couldn’t tell how big it was or how far off, or if straight lines suddenly flopped over like wet grass.

When they finished, Peter offered to drive him home, which Neal was grateful for. The subway was downright impossible on a lesson day, and walking wasn’t much better, whatever kind of sensory hell he was in for this afternoon.

It turned out to be tactile. Neal couldn’t quite decide which sense was his least favorite to have go haywire on him. Tactile had an advantage in that it usually didn’t make him sick to his stomach, unlike smell, taste, hearing, or sight. On the other hand, feeling like he was itching, burning, or had things crawling on him was not a significant improvement. 

Today, though, he found himself especially sensitive to pressure, which was a new one. His necktie and shirt cuffs were choking and squeezing him, and walking felt like he was having his feet slapped repeatedly. The worst part, though, was his tracking anklet. It was bad enough when it itched, but now it felt like an iron band clamped around his ankle, or the ball-and-chain worn by convicts in cartoons. 

As soon as they were in Peter’s car, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his cuffs, but there was nothing to be done about the anklet. Even in the unlikely event that Peter believed it was causing him actual physical pain, and in the unlikelier event that he cared, he couldn’t remove it anyway. 

Apart from the anklet, this might not be so bad. When he itched or burned, even his clothes felt abrasive, but taking them off left him with no protection for his skin at all. And showering would ease the itching, but felt like being pelted with hundreds of tiny missiles. For this, though, he could remove everything constrictive—except the anklet—pile a couple of down comforters on the bed, and lay down, distributing his weight evenly. That should help. 

“Your skin bothering you?” Peter asked, looking down at Neal’s shirt cuffs. 

“Yeah,” Neal said. Explaining the truth seemed like a lot of trouble, and since Peter couldn’t tell he was lying, there was no reason to bother. 

“Hm.” 

At the house, Neal figured he’d just hop out, but Peter took the car around back and parked. “You’re coming in?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, getting his briefcase out of the back seat. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

If he said he didn’t, Peter would probably think he had something up there that he wanted to hide, and then Neal would have to spend the next couple of hours watching his apartment being searched instead of lying on top of a pile of down comforters. 

Besides, with Peter nearby for a little longer, his senses probably wouldn’t get any worse. Neal wouldn’t have asked—he knew that among Peter’s roles of FBI Agent, Elizabeth’s husband, and Neal’s Guide, being a Guide was Peter’s lowest priority—but if Peter was offering, he wasn’t stupid enough to say no. “Sure, thanks.” Maybe Elizabeth was busy or something. Upstairs, before going into the bathroom to change, he said, “Do you want anything to eat or drink? There’s wine and…I don’t know, some cheese and things like that.” Last week, he had been far too sick to be a decent host, but today things weren’t too dire for basic courtesy. 

“I’m fine. Did you want something?”

“No, but smell’s okay today; it won’t bother me if you have something.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “Just…make yourself comfortable.” He made a little shooing motion with his hands. “I’m fine.”

When he came out of the bathroom, he saw that Peter had brought a kitchen chair over by the bed. He planned to stay very nearby, then—good. Neal had a vague memory that last week Peter had actually sat on his bed, but it was understandable that he didn’t want to do that again. After getting the extra comforters out of the closet and arranging things the way he wanted them—a pillow under his tracker-ankle seemed a good idea, although he couldn’t have said why—he tried a few different positions, eventually deciding that laying on his front, sort of cruciform, was the nearest thing to comfortable that he could work out. He closed his eyes.

Next to him, Peter shifted in his chair, and Neal heard the clasps of his briefcase snap open. Paper rustled for a moment, then Peter sat back with a sigh. Neal felt the air currents as his hand moved, then settled on Neal’s shoulder. 

“Hm?” Neal asked. 

“This okay?” Peter asked. 

Actually, it was. Peter’s hand felt very _heavy_ , but somehow comforting. “Yes, thanks.”

Neal closed his eyes again and listened to Peter breathe and turn pages until he drifted off to sleep.

#

 

“Honey,” Elizabeth said as they climbed into bed, “does Neal ever do anything that _doesn’t_ annoy you?”

“Sure.” Peter mentally reviewed the last few minutes of conversation—okay, the last ten minutes of him complaining about Neal and not letting El get a word in edgewise—and then the last week or so’s worth of “how was your day, hon?” conversations. 

Neal annoying him was definitely a predominant theme. They’d talked about his negativity before; Peer knew the drill by now. “He has good insights into our cases. He’s working hard in his Sentinel lessons, and he’s finally getting to the point where he can use his senses in the field. And when he’s not picking apart every little thing, he’s kind of fun to be around.” There, three positive things, without being asked. 

“Do you ever tell him that?”

“God, no. His opinion of himself is already high enough.”

“Nobody enjoys working with someone who’s grumpy all the time,” Elizabeth said.

“He’s not grumpy _all_ the time,” Peter admitted. “Sometimes he’s obnoxiously cheerful.” That always made Peter wonder what he was up to. Neal’s other operating mode was quiet and subdued, which only emerged after his lessons, and Peter now knew was a result of his being in severe discomfort. Peter felt guilty for having, before he knew, sort of enjoyed those times, and even guiltier for _still_ enjoying them. But it was nice to have Neal at his side, quiet and compliant. 

“I meant _you_ , doofus. If I had to work with somebody who never seemed to notice when I did anything right, I’d complain a lot too.”

“He doesn’t complain about me being grumpy. He complains about everything else, but not that.”

“Hm.”

That was definitely not a good ‘hm.’ 

“There’s something else he doesn’t complain about,” Elizabeth pointed out. “He doesn’t complain about how sick he feels after you two have your lessons with Mr. Ketner.”

Peter winced. “Yeah, I know. I screwed up there.” He’d apologized, and fixed Neal’s lesson schedule—what more could he do?

“Yes, you did, but that’s not my point. What have we learned about when Neal complains?”

“That if he didn’t do so much of it, I might have a chance at noticing when something’s really bothering him?” Peter hazarded. That probably wasn’t what El was going for.

“Exactly.” She looked at him expectantly. 

“What?”

“Remind me, honey, what is it that Neal does for a living?”

“He’s a con man.” She knew that.

“Right,” Elizabeth said. “And he’s pretty good at it, right?”

“Right.”

“So he knows how to, say, make sure that somebody is too busy watching something else to notice what he doesn’t want them to see.”

“Oh.” Peter finally figured it out. “You’re saying, maybe he complains all the time because he doesn’t _want_ me to see what’s really bothering him?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“That’s stupid. I mean, maybe you’re right, but that would be a stupid thing for him to do. It’s my job to help him with his senses. What does he get out of making that harder?”

“He gets to not show weakness in front of somebody who controls his entire life and who doesn’t like him very much.”

“I’d like him just fine if he wasn’t so obnoxious all the time.” Peter had liked Neal, or at least been entertained by him, when he was chasing him. 

“Well, maybe he wouldn’t be so obnoxious all the time if you liked him,” Elizabeth suggested. “You need to break out of this vicious cycle.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Let’s invite him over for dinner.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s just what I need. He hasn’t had a chance to complain about my house, my wife, or my dog yet.”

“And what, exactly, is he going to find wrong with your wife?” El said teasingly. 

“I have no idea, and I don’t want to know.”

“He has manners,” El pointed out. “He wouldn’t have been able to con that rich woman into giving him a home if he didn’t. I bet if he’s invited to a social occasion, he’ll behave himself. And you said he’s fun to be around when he’s not unhappy.”

“Right, but if he is unhappy, I’ve just voluntarily put myself in for an extra three hours or so of him, plus given him a whole supply of ammunition.”

“Honey,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve planned gallery openings, and weddings, and $500-a-plate fundraisers, and that reception for the Queen of England. I think I can manage to put together a dinner party that Neal Caffrey will find acceptable.”

Peter wasn’t so sure, but he couldn’t think of a way to say so that would sound like a criticism of Neal’s fault-finding abilities, not Elizabeth’s skill. “He likes wine. Get some wine. Lots and lots of wine.”

#

Neal was sitting at his desk, minding his own business, when Peter came to the railing and beckoned him. “Neal, come here a second.”

Neal tried to remember what he had done recently that Peter would feel the need to talk to him privately about. They’d just had a team meeting less than an hour ago; most subjects he’d want to broach he could have mentioned then. Maybe it was a Sentinel thing. Or possibly a going-back-to-prison thing, but he thought they’d moved past that. He went up to Peter’s office, trying not to look guilty.

“Saturday,” Peter said. 

“What about it?” Saturday he had slept in, having had a pretty rough Sentinel lesson the day before, then gone grocery shopping and helped Cyndi with her life drawing assignment. She was working from a photograph, so Peter couldn’t object to that, could he? It wasn’t like either of _them_ had been nude.

“You’re coming to dinner.”

“I am?”

“Yes. At my house. If you don’t have plans.”

That was not what he was expecting. “Okay. Why?”

Peter hesitated, then said, “My wife wants to meet you.”

Oh. He considered a range of questions, including, ‘Is she going to hurt me?’ and ‘She does realize you hate me, right?’, but eventually settled on, “Should I bring anything?”

“No. Six o’clock.” Peter gave him the address, which Neal already knew anyway.

“Uh, that’s outside my radius,” he pointed out. 

Peter nodded. “I’ll alert the Marshals.” 

“Great,” Neal said, since he now knew he could lie to Peter. “Looking forward to it.”

“Good. See you then.”

“Uh….”

“Yes, I’ll also be seeing you every day until then. Go, get out of here.”

Neal went. 

Over the next few days, Neal developed a series of theories about the intentions behind the dinner invitation. Maybe Peter’s wife thought that he was spending too much time with Neal, and wanted to find out if there was anything going on that shouldn’t be. That was probably the best of the possible options—once she saw them together, she’d realize there wasn’t anything to worry about. Maybe Peter thought it was time for another ‘shape up or ship out’ lecture, and that a change of scenery would give it more impact. If so, Neal was completely screwed, since he was already trying his best. Maybe Peter wanted to provide a visual demonstration of how perfect his life had been before Neal came along to screw it up—he hadn’t gotten in any digs on that subject recently. Maybe he _wasn’t_ going to alert the Marshals, and when Neal showed up at the house he’d be taken down in a hail of gunfire.

Okay, that last one was more of a paranoid fantasy than a theory. 

In his more optimistic moments, he thought that maybe Peter just wanted to get to know him a little better. Maybe he had decided that Neal wasn’t going to get himself shipped back to prison any time soon, so it was time for him to meet his wife. Maybe, just like he usually took people out to lunch on their first day, he usually had coworkers over for dinner every couple of months. Maybe he had finally accepted that Neal wasn’t a terrible person who had intentionally ruined his life, and wanted to make a new start.

The last one was more of a hopeful fantasy than a theory. 

On Saturday afternoon, he changed outfits three times before settling on a khakis-and-sports-jacket combo, with a Polo shirt under the jacket. Neat and a little dressy, without being ostentatious. It wouldn’t do to show up at Peter’s home better-dressed than he was, even though in the office it was sort of unavoidable. 

Peter had told him not to bring anything, but he couldn’t stand to show up empty-handed, and eventually settled on flowers. Subway-station flowers, which were cheap enough that he couldn’t plausibly be accused of obtaining them by criminal means. 

Plus they would add a touch of pathos to the front-page pictures of his bullet-ridden body. 

He got to the subway station and had his flowers purchased before five o’clock, which meant that he had to kill some time—if he left his radius too early, the Marshals might show up anyway, which would be very embarrassing if Peter hadn’t intended that to happen. He found a guy running a Find the Lady game, and profitably used the time mentally critiquing the guy’s performance, which was terrible. Neal was twenty feet away and could tell where the Lady was every time, and it took him about ten seconds to pick out the guy’s shill. 

It would be a perfect opportunity to make a quick couple hundred bucks, but Neal still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that Peter _didn’t_ know when he was lying, and what if he asked if Neal had done anything illegal on the way there? Better not to risk it. 

Even after all that, Neal still found himself on the sidewalk outside of Peter’s house at seven minutes till six. That was too early—five minutes give or take was okay, and in this situation “give” would be better, showing eagerness, but seven was way too much. He decided to knock on the door at 5:56. He studied the cars parked along the street, and tried not to look as if he was considering stealing any of them.

At 5:55, Peter’s front door opened. “Most people knock,” he called. 

Neal hurried over. “I just got here.”

“You’ve been standing out here for two minutes,” Peter countered.

There was no explanation that wouldn’t sound either ridiculous, suspicious, or both, so instead he held out the flowers and said, “Here.”

Neal could see Peter considering and rejecting possible responses. He finally settled on, “Thanks.”

A woman Neal recognized as Peter’s wife came into the foyer. “Hi, Neal, come on in.”

Peter stepped back and let him in the house. There was no hail of gunfire, so already this was going better than it might have. 

“I’m Elizabeth.” She extended her hand.

Neal shook it. “Neal.” Obviously, she knew that. 

“Did you bring these?” She took the flowers out of Peter’s hand. “They’re lovely. I’ll just put them in some water.”

“Good idea,” Neal said. Peter gave him a look like he thought Neal was being a smartass, which he supposed it did sound like. 

While Elizabeth was in the other room, presumably following through on her good idea of putting the flowers in water, Peter invited him to sit down. Neal perched carefully on the edge of the sofa. A big yellow Labrador got up from a dog bed in the corner and ambled over. “Hey, buddy,” Neal said, patting him.

“That’s Satchmo. If you’d knocked, he would have been at the door barking.”

“I was going to,” Neal said, wondering how long Peter was going to keep harping on that subject. 

“Just as well, really.” Peter sat in a nearby chair, looking no more comfortable than Neal felt. 

Elizabeth came back in, carrying three glasses of wine on a tray. After handing them around, she sat at the other end of the sofa.

Right, Neal should have taken the chair, so he wouldn’t be sharing furniture with Peter’s wife. It was a little late now. 

“You look nice,” Elizabeth said. 

“Um, thanks.” Peter was wearing a suit and tie—not the paisley one—and Elizabeth had on a black cocktail dress. Apparently he should have gone with outfit #2; he was a little under-dressed. “You too.” 

“Thanks.”

Neal sipped at his wine, for something to do. 

“How is it?” Peter asked. 

Neal froze. Was he supposed to offer a critique of the stuff, or remark on how much better it was than prison-toilet wine? Finally, he settled on, “Nice. It’s, um, good.” He drank some more.

“Peter mentioned you like wine,” Elizabeth said.

“I do.” Wait, was she implying Peter thought he was a lush? “Just, you know, occasionally.”

Peter sighed loudly. 

#

“See what I mean?” Peter whispered to El while they were in the kitchen getting the roast out of the oven.

“He seems a little nervous, honey.”

“That isn’t nervous; it’s passive-aggressive.” 

She glanced up from the hot oven to give him a skeptical look. “Where’s that platter?” 

Peter found it on the counter behind him and held it at the ready. El sat the roasting pan on the top of the stove and took the platter. 

“You might want to try not glaring at him every time he opens his mouth,” El continued. 

“I’m not glaring.”

“Hm, well, you can’t see it. I could hold up a mirror.” 

“Fine,” Peter said. “I’ll stop glaring.”

“Try to watch the sighing, too.” 

For the next few minutes, he carved the roast, put the potatoes in a dish, and handed El the whisk and cornstarch as she made the gravy. The process was complicated somewhat by the fact that there was a vase full of flowers sitting right in the middle of the countertop. 

Peter had, barely, managed to stop himself from pointing out that if Neal really was living on a hundred dollars a month, he shouldn’t have had money to waste on something like that. Peter took the subway too, sometimes, and he knew that the flowers sold there started at $12.99, and they didn’t take food stamps. For as much as Neal complained about not having enough money, he was downright stupid about managing it. Peter would have been more sympathetic to his complaints if he’d ever mentioned a legitimate, necessary expense that he was having trouble meeting, but it was always things like how he had to get his hair cut by June’s housekeeper (who did a perfectly fine job of it, as far as Peter could see) and he could only go to museums on the one day a week that they were free. 

So the flowers were either stolen, purchased with illegally-obtained funds, or represented over ten percent of Neal’s monthly budget. Peter didn’t like any of the possibilities, and sincerely wished Neal hadn’t brought them. But if he said so, Elizabeth would only point out that they showed Neal was trying to be a good guest, and shouldn’t he be putting as much effort into being a gracious host?

Elizabeth was putting in an effort. The roast was beef tenderloin, costing the equivalent of a week of Neal’s grocery budget, and a pretty big chunk of theirs, and the potatoes were the roasted kind Elizabeth said were too much work to make often. Out-of-season asparagus for the vegetable. Peter wondered if Neal would realize that this was the Burke household’s best company dinner, and if so, would he silently—or not-so-silently—judge it.

But when they sat down to eat, Neal said all the right things—it looked delicious, was delicious, they shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. Peter let Elizabeth carry the conversation, and concentrated on not glaring or sighing. Once the subject of the food was exhausted, Neal asked Elizabeth a few polite questions about her job, and she responded by talking about a gallery opening she was planning. 

“Hey, that one’s inside my radius,” Neal said when she mentioned where it was being held. “It is invitation-only?”

Before Peter could react to the idea of Neal turning up at one of Elizabeth’s events, she said, “Yes,” and Peter sighed with relief.

“Too bad,” Neal said. “I’ve been going to a lot of gallery openings lately. The ones where they let anybody in, I mean. The art usually isn’t that good—or the wine—but it’s an evening out that doesn’t cost anything, and struggling artists are usually fun to talk to.”

“The ones at the Cross gallery aren’t exactly struggling,” Elizabeth said with a smile, “but I can vouch for the wine. I can probably get you an invitation; it isn’t that exclusive.”

“That would be great.”

Peter tried to subtly signal to El that this was a bad, bad idea, but she ignored him. “Actually, if you wore a nice suit you could probably get in without one.”

Neal grinned. “I have done that. In the past, I mean. Openings, or any kind of party really, are pretty easy to get into. Showing up and acting like you belong works most of the time. Last resort is to dress up as a cater-waiter.”

“Hm,” Elizabeth said. “So if I’m ever working an event and notice that there’s one more cater-waiter than the client is paying for….”

“Yep, they’re probably casing the joint.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Picking the right person and just asking for an invitation is surprisingly effective, too. Or hinting.” Neal looked cautious for a moment. “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I was actually planning to steal anything from the gallery, naturally.”

Peter wasn’t so sure—telling the mark exactly how he was scamming them was one of Neal’s tricks; the appearance of honesty was disarming—but Elizabeth just smiled and said, “Naturally.” 

So Neal and his wife were hitting it off. Peter tried to convince himself that was a good thing, or at least not a bad one. He was going to have to go to that gallery opening, to make sure Neal behaved himself, but Neal did seem more relaxed than he did at work. Maybe Elizabeth was right, and Neal would be less of a pain in the ass to be around if he felt more at ease. 

#

Neal was surprised to find that he _liked_ Elizabeth, and that she seemed to like him, too. Of course, that was at least partly down to professional skill—Elizabeth’s job required her to be gracious to everyone, much as Peter’s required him to be suspicious. Still, it was nice, talking to somebody who knew who he was but didn’t automatically assume the worst. 

After dinner, he and Elizabeth returned to the living room, and Peter went to the kitchen to make coffee. Some impulse—or possibly the wine, which he’d been hitting a little harder than he was used to—made Neal take advantage of the moment to lean in close to Elizabeth and say, “I really am sorry about ruining your husband’s life. I know he doesn’t believe me, but I didn’t do it on purpose.” Maybe if he could convince Elizabeth, she’d convince Peter.

Elizabeth glanced around the room. “Peter’s life is ruined?”

“You know, with the whole Guide thing.”

“Did Peter actually say that the ‘Guide thing’ ruined his life?”

“No, he just sort of implied it.” 

Elizabeth looked toward the kitchen. “Honey?”

Peter called back, “Yes?”

“Has being Neal’s Guide ruined your life?”

Neal wanted to die. He tried frantically to think of some way to get Elizabeth to drop the subject, but short of setting the dog on fire, he couldn’t think of a distraction big enough. Peter emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three coffee cups. “For Christ’s sake, Neal, don’t be such a drama queen.”

The subject they very carefully didn’t talk about, the enormous pile of elephant dung in the room, dragged out into the open, and Peter’s response was, ‘Don’t be such a drama queen’? That was a little…anticlimactic. “You never wanted to be a Guide,” Neal reminded him. 

Passing Elizabeth one of the coffee cups, Peter said, “No, I didn’t, and now I’m stuck with a job responsibility that isn’t what I would have chosen. My life is _inconvenienced_ , not ruined.” 

In other circumstances, Neal might have been offended to be referred to as an inconvenience, but ‘inconvenience’ was a substantial upgrade from ‘life-ruiner’. 

Handing Neal the second coffee cup, Peter continued, “And it’s not like you _made_ me into a Guide. Even if my life was ruined, you didn’t do it all by yourself. You’re not that important, in the scheme of things.” 

“But I was the one who outed you,” Neal pointed out. “I didn’t know you were _in_ , I mean, but I still did.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to ‘out’ me if I hadn’t lied about it in the first place,” Peter said. “To a significant extent, I brought this on myself. And yes, that’s a moral. Actions have consequences, and just because I don’t like the consequences doesn’t mean I get to go around looking for anybody else to blame.”

Neal ignored the moral, which was what he had come to expect from Peter, and focused on the genuinely new information. “So you don’t think I ruined your life.”

“My life is not ruined, and you did not personally ruin it,” Peter confirmed.

“Then why--” Neal stopped short. He must be drunker than he’d thought; he was about to say, ‘Then why do you hate me?’

“Why what?”

“Why do you constantly talk about sending me back to prison?” There, that tracked reasonably well from the conversation they’d been having, and wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as asking why Peter hated him. 

“Because,” Peter said slowly, “I keep thinking that eventually, you’ll grasp that what you have here is a pretty good deal, and maybe you should be grateful for it instead of complaining about every little thing.”

“Peter,” Elizabeth said, “how often do you threaten to send Neal back to prison?”

“About five or six times a day,” Neal said. It was a slight exaggeration, but he’d already been accused of being a drama queen. 

Peter glared at him. “I do not. I _threaten_ to send you back to prison if you commit a crime or otherwise fail to fulfill the conditions of your release. I _ask_ if you would prefer prison when you indicate that life on the outside is not to your liking. There’s a difference.”

Neal supposed there was, but he hadn’t thought of it that way before. 

“You don’t think I’m actually going to send you back to prison for criticizing my ties, do you?”

“No,” Neal said. He wasn’t _that_ pathetic. “I just thought you enjoyed reminding me that you could.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I don’t actually have the authority to send you back to prison on a whim. I’d have to either arrest you, if you committed a crime or violated your conditions, or submit a report to the prison board demonstrating that it wasn’t working out, and you’d get a hearing.”

Neal knew that, actually—it was in the booklet about his rights as a work-release prisoner. He had no illusions that the authorities wouldn’t take Peter’s word for it that the arrangement wasn’t working out, though, if he chose to tell them it wasn’t.

“However,” Peter continued, “you could go back voluntarily at any time, if working for me and enjoying the relative freedom of half of Manhattan is such a tremendous burden to you.”

He knew that, too. He also knew that his next destination was likely to be a secure psychiatric facility, where they’d do God-knows-what to keep him from escaping. A custom-fitted straitjacket, maybe, or drugging him up to the eyeballs. And that was only if he was lucky, and they didn’t realize that providing him with just enough access to a Guide to meet the legal definition of “adequate,” and no more, would leave him unable to escape from a wet paper bag.

“Would you like to exercise that option?” Peter asked.

What, he was going to make him say it? “No. I’d rather not go back to prison.”

“I didn’t think so. And as long as you agree that what you have now is better than prison, you have nothing to complain about.”

“I’m not complaining,” Neal said.

“Not right this second,” Peter said. “Tell you what. I think I’m about as tired of hearing you complain about things as you are of hearing me talk about sending you to prison. What do you say we both knock it off?”

“Okay,” Neal agreed, wondering what the catch was. Not complaining seemed like a small price to pay to have Peter not mentioning prison every five minutes. 

“Good,” Peter said. 

“Honey,” Elizabeth said, giving him a significant look. 

Peter nodded. To Neal, he said, “You understand that there’s a difference between complaining and bringing an actual problem to my attention?”

Neal hesitated. Most of the things Peter threatened to send him back to prison for talking about _were_ real problems. Okay, the comments about Peter’s ties were a little unbecoming—even if he did have to look at them—but the surveillance van _was_ smelly, mortgage fraud cases _were_ boring, and it really was very difficult to live in Manhattan on a hundred dollars a month, especially if you weren’t allowed to steal anything. 

“A real problem that you haven’t already told me about, at length, and that you have some reason to believe I might be able to help you with,” Peter elaborated. “Like…when we changed your lessons to the afternoons. That is better, right?”

Neal nodded. “Yes, much better.” Especially since, so far, Peter had always come up to his apartment and sat with him for a little while after them. 

“Good. We could have done that sooner, if you’d said something. That kind of thing, you should tell me about.”

Now Neal was starting to understand. Peter was defining ‘real problems’ as ‘problems Peter would care about.’ He had a pretty good handle on which ones those were: the problems that kept him from doing his job. “Okay. Yes. I’ve got it.”

“So we have a deal?”

“Yes. Deal.”

So, as it turned out, the outcome of dinner at the Burkes’ turned out to be not wildly far off from his optimistic fantasy. Peter didn’t think Neal had ruined his life, and while he hadn’t gone so far as to suggest a fresh start, he at least seemed to think they could get along better in the future. 

#

“Sure is rotten out,” Diana said, shaking her umbrella outside before closing the back door of the surveillance van. “And the damp really brings out the smell in here.”

“I can’t complain,” Neal said. “It’s raining up at Attica, too.”

Peter sighed. Neal was sticking to the letter of their deal, which apparently to him meant that he could draw attention to the various things he was refraining from complaining about. 

“What?” Neal said. “I’m not complaining. Prison doesn’t smell very nice, either.”

Peter shook his head. The new routine was, he supposed, a little less irritating than the actual complaining had been, and Neal at least seemed to get some enjoyment from it. “Carry on.”

“Did I miss anything?” Diana asked as she took her seat.

“A dog peed on that doorman’s leg,” Neal said, pointing to one of the monitors. 

“Is that relevant?”

“No, but it was kind of funny.” 

Peter supposed he ought to appreciate that Neal was making an effort to find topics of conversation that didn’t involve complaints—it was at least preferable to a five-minute monologue on how nothing was happening, he was bored, and it was completely pointless for them to be sitting here. 

“Big dog?” Diana asked.

“No,” Peter said. “One of those little poodles.”

“Bichon frise, I think,” Neal said. “Different haircut.”

“Is that our suspect coming through the lobby?” Diana asked.

Peter and Neal both looked at the monitor. “Yes,” Peter said. “Looks like he’s talking on a phone…Neal, do you want to see if you can hear him?” Ketner had said, at their last lesson, that Neal was probably ready to start using his senses in the field a little bit, and this was as good a time as any to practice. 

Neal nodded. “Okay. Um.” He lifted his hand.

“Yeah, okay.” Peter took his wrist. Neal formed the link, and shut his eyes. “It should help if you’re watching him,” Peter reminded him. He was pretty sure that was how the piggy-backing thing Ketner had taught Neal worked. 

“I’m still working on the dial part,” Neal said. “Okay.” He opened his eyes and looked at the monitor. “He says, ‘Is the meeting set up?’… ‘No, that’s too early’… ‘That’s still too early’… ‘Fine, if that’s the best you can do.’”

Naturally, he didn’t say anything as helpful as, ‘The meeting to finalize the money laundering arrangements? Yes, let’s have it at 10:30 tomorrow at an address that I will repeat for the benefit of anyone listening in,’ but Peter hadn’t really expected him to.

“Now he’s yelling at the doorman about getting him a cab—he’s having a pretty rotten day, isn’t he? Oh, shit.” Neal winced and pulled his hand away as even Peter heard the doorman whistling for a cab. 

“You okay?” Peter asked. 

Neal nodded. “Yeah. Is he--” He looked in the monitor and stuck his hand out again. “I might be able to get the address--”

Peter took his wrist again, but Neal still had his eyes closed when the cab pulled away from the curb. “Missed it.”

“Damn.” Neal pulled his hand away and rubbed his wrist. “I need to get faster with the dials.”

Peter couldn’t disagree. He picked up his radio and made sure the car parked around the block was ready to pick up the tail when the cab passed. 

“Sorry,” Neal said when he finished. 

Peter shrugged. It would have been nice for Neal if the experiment of using his hearing for surveillance had actually produced some useful information on his very first try, but that wasn’t how the job usually worked, and Neal needed the practice anyway. “You feel okay?”

“Yeah. Just doing it for a few minutes like that isn’t bad.”

“Good.” It was unfortunate that Ketner couldn’t give Neal shorter lessons more often, but maybe practicing for a few minutes at a time, several times a day, would help him improve without making him too uncomfortable. 

“So,” Neal said. “Now we sit here for three more hours on the off chance that he comes back?”

“Right,” Peter said. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. Looking forward to it.”

“Maybe the doorman’ll get peed on again,” Diana suggested.

#

The no-complaining agreement seemed to be working out fairly well. It took Neal a little while to fine-tune the concept—Peter was defining “complaint” a lot more broadly than he would—but Peter took to just saying, “Prison,” every time he thought Neal stepped over the line, and pretty soon he had it worked out. 

Elizabeth came through with the invitation to the gallery opening, which was a pleasant surprise. Neal had figured Peter would talk her out of it. But the invitation turned up on his desk, obviously delivered by Peter, and he was even let out of work at a reasonable hour on the day of the event. When he got to the gallery, Peter was there, but Neal behaved himself and didn’t bother him. 

The paintings were good, too—big, sweeping canvases with landscapes strung out along the horizon lines. The effect reminded him of one of the visual distortions he sometimes had after his Sentinel lessons. The Monday after, he was telling Jones and Diana about it in the conference room, before Peter showed up for their meeting. 

“So is the artist a Sentinel?” Diana asked.

“No,” Neal said. He had asked. “He says they’re supposed to be about the effect of highway driving on visual perception. I can see that, too, especially in the Midwest. But they’re pretty cool.” Peter entered the room. “You should go; the show’s there for another month.”

Peter looked over at him, his ‘What are you up to now?’ look. 

“Just telling Diana and Jones about the gallery opening.”

“Not a lot of art galleries in prison,” Peter noted.

“I wasn’t _complaining_ about it,” Neal said, offended. “It was nice. I said it was nice.” He looked at Diana for support.

“He did,” Diana said. 

“ _See_?”

“Sorry,” Peter said. “I forgot.”

“I should get a free pass for that,” Neal said. 

“A free pass for what?” Jones asked.

“Peter’s not supposed to remind me how much worse I’d have it in prison unless I complain,” Neal explained. “We have a _deal_.”

Diana tried not to smile. “I don’t know, Boss, I think maybe he deserves a free pass.”

Peter sighed. “Fine. One complaint. Go for it.”

“Oh, no, I’m going to save it.” He hadn’t expected Peter to actually agree, but now that he had, Neal might as well figure out how to have fun with it. 

Peter looked at Diana, who apparently had established herself as referee.

“Free passes can be used at the discretion of the bearer,” Diana said. “That’s pretty standard.”

“Okay, but you only get to use it once,” Peter said, with another sigh. “No saying, ‘If I was using my free pass, I’d say blah, blah, blah, but I’m not so it doesn’t count.’ It counts.”

“It’s like you’re talking to a genie,” Neal said, impressed with Peter’s willingness to play along.

“A genie?”

“You know, how you have to state your three wishes very precisely, with no loopholes, so you don’t get an ironic twist on what you actually wished for,” Neal explained. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like,” Peter said. “Except for the part with the wishes. And the part where I can’t put you back in your _lamp_.”

Neal looked at Diana.

“Lamp is not the same thing as prison,” she said with a shake of her head. “But in this deal, is Peter allowed to complain about you? Because that was close.”

“Unfortunately, he is.” He should have thought of that when he was making his wishes, Neal supposed. 

“Does anyone have anything to say about the Herringford case?” Peter asked pointedly.

“Shutting up now,” Neal said.

So really, things were much better between him and Peter. Life in general would have been much improved, except that now that Ketner had cleared him to start using his senses in the field—briefly, and in safe conditions—Peter seemed to want him to do it _all the time_ , often for things that it didn’t seem particularly important. Sometimes Neal thought he was looking for excuses. 

The extra practice was helping Neal get faster at using his dials, which was a good thing because opening up his hearing or smell in any normal environment was inherently riskier than doing it a clean room. There was no telling when a cell phone would ring or somebody wearing too much cologne would walk by, and if he couldn’t dial down quickly at the first sign of trouble, he tended to wind up sitting in a corner trying not to throw up, while Peter assured concerned onlookers that he was fine and just needed a minute. 

As he told Peter, using his senses for a few minutes at a time didn’t incapacitate him the way working for three hours at a stretch in his lessons did, but that was about the only thing he could say about it without complaining. It still tired him out, and left him vulnerable to sensory spikes—though after a brief period of using his senses, they were only a possibility and not an absolute certainty. But it always seemed to happen that just when he started to feel himself again, Peter would decide it was time for him to smell, listen to, or look at some new piece of trivial evidence. He usually asked if Neal could handle it, and didn’t do anything worse than sigh and look put-upon on the few times that Neal said ‘No’ when he was still able to walk and talk, but Neal didn’t want to risk losing the privilege if he over-used it.

One afternoon, they were being kept waiting by the secretary of a stockbroker they were investigating for fraud. No amount of Peter waving his badge around could get them past her desk, which was set up in front of the door leading to the inner office. She insisted that Mr. Sullivan was unavailable, and they would be shown in as soon as he was available, and until then they just had to wait.

“I’d like to know what he’s doing in there,” Peter said. 

Neal nodded. So did he.

“Do you think you could…?”

It was a good idea—this was exactly the sort of thing his senses were good for. The trouble was, he’d already used them to provide scent-evidence verification that Sullivan had touched some memos he claimed not to have seen, to pick out background sounds in a tapped phone conversation, and to examine another agent’s dubious-looking bearer bonds. Of the three, only the first was something that couldn’t have been done with specialized equipment instead— nothing more specialized than a magnifying glass, in the case of the bonds. If he hadn’t used his senses since the Sullivan memos that morning, he’d be pretty confident that he was good to go now, but he had wasted them on the other things. 

Still, he did want to know. And he could probably do it. He nodded, and they dropped their hands to their sides, where Peter could hold his wrist without the secretary seeing. 

As usual, Peter gave him absolutely no help with the link-up. It was like trying to shake hands with a wall. Still, since he’d been doing it three or four times a day for the last couple of weeks, and in lessons for three months before that, he had gotten the knack of it. Neal established the link quickly and cautiously dialed up his hearing. 

The first thing he noticed was the ticking of the wall clock. Filter that out, like Ketner had taught him, okay…next obstacle was the hum of the secretary’s computer monitor; why she didn’t have a nice, quiet LCD he had no idea. Sullivan did, for the computer in his office. “I’m in,” Neal said softly. 

“Ssh,” Peter said. 

Right, it would probably be more subtle if he listened silently now, and gave Peter a report later. 

Sullivan was definitely in the office, but he wasn’t talking, on the phone or otherwise. Neal heard a few mouse-clicks, then footsteps and a file drawer opening, followed by the hum of some appliance being turned on. A printer, maybe? No. He dialed down fast and turned to Peter and whispered, “A shredder. He’s shredding documents in there.”

In one motion, Peter dropped Neal’s wrist and stood, pulling out his badge. Neal started to follow, but as he stood the horizon tilted a dizzying forty-five degrees and stretched miles away—an effect that was far less cool in real life than in a painting. He sat down again and tried to keep his head perfectly still. 

Fortunately, he didn’t have to worry about tipping off the secretary for long. In about half a minute, Peter was through the door, and Neal could put his head in his hands and look as pathetic as he wanted while trying not to throw up.

Some time later, some more agents and an evidence-recovery unit showed up, and Peter came out of Sullivan’s office. “Hey.” He sat down next to Neal and patted his shoulder. “Overdid it a little bit, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed Neal’s shoulder a little more. “That was good, though. We got him red-handed destroying evidence.”

“Great.” Neal risked looking up. The horizon stayed where it was supposed to be. 

“You okay to go back to the office?”

Home would have been better, but Neal could handle the office. “Yes.”

“Good; we’re going to have a lot of evidence to go over.”

“What kind of evidence?” If it was anything he had to use his senses on, he was going to beg off, no matter how huffy Peter got about it.

“Hm? Oh, memos, reports—the stuff the ERT guys are boxing up in there. No, you’re done for the day, Sentinel-wise.”

“Okay, good.” He could rest on the car ride back, and if he needed a little more time after that, he could work slowly for a while.


	2. Cascade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the part where the middle section I skipped would go. This is what it says in my master file: 
> 
> #  
> (They are sent to Washington State on some pretext, to work with the Cascade Police Department on…oh, I don’t know. Art theft? Yeah, let’s say that Jim and Blair catch an art thief and find his cache, and they call in the FBI for help identifying what they have and whether it’s real or forged.)  
> #

#

When they reached the warehouse in Cascade, Washington, a burly man who looked to be in his late fifties, with closely-cropped graying hair, came out and stood in the doorway, looking them—specifically, looking Neal—up and down. From the way his nostrils were flaring, Peter would have sworn he was _sniffing_ him.

“Detective Ellison?” Peter asked, getting out his badge. 

The man spared him a glance and got out his own badge. “Agent Burke. My associate, Neal Caffrey.”

Another man, much shorter and with long, curly hair that wouldn’t have been regulation in any police department Peter had heard of, ducked under the big cop’s arm to come outside. “Oh, man,” he said, looking back and forth from Peter to Neal, and back at Ellison. “Somebody did not think this through.”

“What’s the problem?” Peter asked. If Ellison had heard about Neal’s record and didn’t want him on his case because of it, Peter was going to give him a piece of his mind.

“The FBI didn’t mention they were sending another Sentinel,” the short guy said. 

“ _Another_ Sentinel?” Peter asked. He hadn’t known they’d sent another one, either.

“Sorry,” the short guy said. “I’m Guide Sandburg, and Jim here is also known as Sentinel Ellison.”

Oh. Peter turned to look at his own Sentinel, who was standing almost as stiffly as Ellison, and looking only slightly less hostile. 

Sandburg pried one of Ellison’s hands off the door frame. “Jim, buddy, you need to settle down.”

“He wants to look at my crime scene,” Ellison said.

“Yes, I know. Come—come back inside for a minute.”

Sandburg dragged his Sentinel inside. Peter wondered if he ought to drag Neal back to the car, but he was standing with his normal relaxed posture, smiling slightly. “That was a little weird,” Neal said.

“Yeah. Is that a problem, two Sentinels on the same case?”

Neal shrugged. “I’ve never worked with another Sentinel before. I’ve met some. We got along okay.”

In a few minutes, Sandburg came back out. “Okay,” he said. “I guess they didn’t warn you either, huh? Mundanes.” He rolled his eyes. “We’re going to start over.” He gave Peter directions to a diner about half a mile away. “You’ll get there first—Jim needs a few more minutes—so sit anywhere but the second booth on the left.”

“All right,” Peter said. He almost asked what was wrong with the second booth on the left, but decided he didn’t want to know—or, more to the point, didn’t want Neal to know.

They got back in the car and drove to the diner. Neal looked highly skeptical about it, but didn’t say anything. The fourth booth on the right was empty, so they took that one. After a minute or two, a waitress came by and slapped plastic-covered menus in front of them. “You want water?”

“We’re waiting for the rest of our party,” Neal said. 

“Let me know.” She walked away.

Neal examined his menu as if he was expecting a test on its contents. 

“I don’t imagine this place has much of a wine list,” Peter remarked.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Neal said. He turned his menu toward Peter and pointed to the bottom of the beverage section, which listed four kinds of domestic bottled beer and two wine choices, ‘red’ and ‘white.’

“Both kinds,” Peter said. “Classy.”

“It’s a more extensive wine list than your favorite lunch place,” Neal said. “Which I mention as a point of information, not a complaint. Also, this establishment doesn’t have _wheels_.”

A moment or two later, Neal sat up straight, his eyes fixed on the door. Peter turned to look, in time to see Ellison and Sandburg coming in through the door. It reminded Peter of when Satch caught sight of the German Shepherd down the block that he couldn’t stand. Elizabeth insisted that stuffing treats in his mouth was the best way to handle the situation, and that eventually he’d come to associate the other dog with food instead of aggression. 

It was entirely possible that Sandburg had something similar in mind. 

Sandburg and Ellison came over. “Hey.” Sandburg gestured at where he and Neal were sitting, on opposite sides of the booth. 

Right. It was probably best if Sandburg sat next to his guy. Peter switched over to sit next to Neal, and Sandburg and Ellison sat down on the other bench.

The waitress slapped down two more menus. “ _Now_ do youze want water?”

“Please,” Sandburg said. “Thanks, Vera.”

Ellison didn’t say much for the next few minutes, but Sandburg more than made up for it with a barrage of comments about the weather, suggestions about what was good on the menu, and questions about their flight.

“It was fine,” Peter said, when Sandburg paused for breath. “On time.”

“If you’re set to start working today, I guess your Sentinel doesn’t have a hard time on planes,” Sandburg said. “That’s lucky.”

It had never occurred to Peter that the plane could be a problem for Neal, apart from the lack of leg room, which he had mentioned three or four times. He glanced over at Neal. 

“Yes, it is lucky,” Neal said. 

Sandburg patted Ellison’s hand. “Easy, big guy. So, Agent Caffrey--” 

“He’s not an agent,” Peter said quickly. “He’s a--”

“Criminal informant,” Neal supplied. 

“I was going to say ‘consultant,’” Peter said. That was what his credentials said, the Bureau feeling that putting the word “criminal” on an official employee ID gave the wrong impression.

“That, too,” Neal agreed. 

“Oh,” Sandburg said. After a moment, he rallied. “I’m a consultant, too. My training is in Anthropology. I was going to say, I didn’t realize the FBI had a Sentinel in art crimes—kind of an unusual specialty.”

Ellison spoke for the first time since arriving at the restaurant. “Sandburg’s interested in Sentinels with backgrounds outside the military or law enforcement.”

“My background is about as far outside law enforcement as you can get,” Neal said. “In fact, it kind of--” He made a circular motion with his hand.

“Circles around and hits it from the other side, yeah,” Sandburg said. “That’s interesting.”

“He _is_ an expert in art crimes,” Peter said. He didn’t want the other two thinking Neal was some kind of ignorant thug. “Among other things.”

Neal gave a modest little shrug. 

Vera returned with four glasses of water, which she dealt around the table. “You ready?”

“Chicken Caesar salad,” Sandburg said. 

Vera wrote that down and turned to Peter and Neal. “I think I’ll try the hot roast beef sandwich,” Peter said. It was one of Sandburg’s recommendations. 

“Fries or mashed?”

“Fries.”

“Gravy on ‘em?”

“Why not.”

Neal said, “Uh…turkey club, I think. On white.”

“Fries or chips?”

“Fries. I don’t need any gravy, thanks.” Vera started to put her order pad away, and Neal said, “Isn’t he having anything?” indicating Ellison.

Vera sighed. “Burger, no onions, pickle on the side, fries no salt. Right?”

“Right,” Ellison said. 

The waitress walked away, shoes slapping on the linoleum floor. 

“What can you tell us about the case?” Peter asked. 

Ellison gave them a run-down, most of which had been covered in the files the PD had sent. The PD had been investigating Rigley for murder, only to discover, when they finally got a warrant for his warehouse, that it was crammed not only with the weapons they had been expecting, but also with crates of presumably-stolen works of art. The only part that was really news was how surprised the Cascade PD had been to find it all.

“We thought he was smuggling weapons,” Sandburg interjected. “And he was, but that’s not all.”

“A lot of illegal arms dealers use valuable artwork as currency,” Neal said. “It’s more portable than suitcases full of cash, and less traceable than an electronic funds transfer.”

Ellison looked at Neal suspiciously.

“He wasn’t an arms dealer,” Peter said. “He sold stolen artwork _to_ arms dealers, but he never dealt in weapons himself.”

“Allegedly,” Neal added. 

“He’s completely unrepentant, but not dangerous,” Peter explained, figuring it was best to have that out there. He didn’t want Ellison misunderstanding Neal’s flippant attitude toward his past crimes.

“I’m a little bit repentant,” Neal said, holding his thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart.

“Being sorry you got caught is not the same thing as being repentant.” 

“It’s similar,” Neal argued.

“Not very.”

Fortunately, their food arrived before Neal had a chance to respond, or Sandburg to weigh in on the issue. Peter was sure he had an opinion—after knowing the guy for fifteen minutes, it was clear he had an opinion about _everything_. He might even give Neal a run for his money in terms of being exhausting to work with.

Peter’s sandwich _was_ good, and Neal seemed, if not thrilled, not particularly disapproving of his turkey club. 

“They’ve been cooking fish in the fry oil again,” Ellison said, tasting one of his fries.

Sandburg patted his hand. “I’ll say something to Vera.”

Neal caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Yeah, Peter bet he would like it if Peter patted his hand and promised to take care of it every time Neal was inconvenienced by something. Wasn’t going to happen.

“Slightly fishy fries aren’t so bad if you’re eating fish,” Neal commented. Peter wasn’t sure why, since none of them were. 

By the time they finished lunch, Ellison had calmed down enough to allow Neal access to his crime scene. The local cops apparently kept banker’s hours, so they didn’t have time to do much more than get the lie of the land—although, while they were doing that, Neal spotted three things, and Peter four, that they recognized from the Art Loss registry. 

By five thirty, they were leaving the warehouse and on their way to the motel where the FBI had arranged for them to stay. Neal had been vocally alarmed by the word “motel,” but it was a perfectly nice Best Western. He seemed somewhat reassured when they checked-in in a front office that was clean and free of degenerates.

But when the clerk handed them their key cards, saying, “You’re in one-eighteen,” Neal balked. 

“We’re sharing a _room_?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “Even if the Bureau wanted to pick up the tab for two rooms, I’m not wild about the idea of you unsupervised in a strange city.”

“You said no overnights,” Neal reminded him.

“This is a business trip,” Peter said. He was already 3000 miles away from his home and his wife; not sharing a room with Neal wouldn’t change that. Anyway, when they’d told Ketner about the trip, he’d mentioned that Sentinels often had trouble in unfamiliar environments. Before his arrest, Neal hadn’t had any trouble changing time zones like some people changed underwear, but there was no point taking chances when it was easy enough for Peter to keep an eye on him. 

In the room, Neal immediately began unpacking, fussing over how his clothes had gotten wrinkled in his suitcase. Peter called home—it was three hours earlier here than back in New York, so if he waited until after dinner, Elizabeth might be in bed already. 

“Hey, hon,” he said.

“Hey,” Elizabeth answered. “How are things in the great Northwest?”

“Rainy,” Peter said. “We just got to the motel.”

“Long day,” Elizabeth said sympathetically.

“It’s not over yet. _Where_ do you think you’re going?” he said as Neal reached for the doorknob. “Not you, El.”

Neal gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “I thought I’d go outside and not listen to your private conversation. But I can stay, if you’d rather.”

Peter looked at him for a moment. “Don’t go far.”

“Has Neal been trying to run away?” Elizabeth asked as he left the room.

“No,” Peter said. “He’s behaving himself. More or less. Get this—the local cop they have us working with is a Sentinel.”

“Really? How’s Neal taking that?”

They talked for a few minutes, about his day and hers, before hanging up. Peter looked outside and found Neal sitting on a bench just outside the door, looking out at the parking lot. “Thanks,” he said. Elizabeth’s question had made him realize, belatedly, that snapping at Neal when he was trying to be polite had been a mistake. 

“No problem.”

“You, uh, have anybody you need to call?”

“Nope.”

After a quiet dinner at a chain restaurant near the motel, they returned to the room. “We’re in for the night now, right?” Peter asked, getting out his phone. 

“As far as I know.”

Peter gave him a look.

“I am not planning to go anywhere, no.”

“Good.” He called the prisoner tracking hotline and had Neal’s radius set to a quarter-mile around the motel. “That should be enough to get you to the lobby or the ice machine without alerting the Marshals.”

“Excellent.”

Peter settled down to watch TV, and after a few minutes of fussing over his clothes, Neal stretched out on the other bed to read. 

“I didn’t know you had a Kindle.” He wondered if Elizabeth might want one. Her birthday was coming up.

“It’s Cyndi’s,” Neal said. “She lent it to me for my trip.”

“Oh.” Right, Amazon probably didn’t take electronic benefits transfer cards. “You like it?”

Neal glanced up from the device. “It’s fine. Doesn’t take up much room in a carry-on.”

“Doesn’t have that new-book smell, though,” Peter remarked.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Some people like that.” He wasn’t sure where Elizabeth stood on the subject. 

“Uh-huh.”

“But you can order books from anywhere and get them right away. That has to be convenient.”

“Yeah, especially if there aren’t any bookstores in your radius.”

“There are bookstores in your radius,” Peter said. 

“True. Oddly, none of them take food stamps.”

“There are libraries in your radius, too.”

“Yeah,” Neal said. “Some.”

Peter got out his phone and made a search. “There are _twenty_ branches of the New York Public Library inside your radius.” The main library, with its Gutenberg bible, was just outside it, which Peter thought was for the best. “Is that not enough for you?”

“Seventeen,” Neal answered. “And some of them aren’t very good.” He glanced up from the Kindle. “They’ll send things from the main library to any of the branches; it just takes a couple of days.”

“Then I think you’ll survive.”

“Probably,” Neal said. 

“Well, if you’re ever on the verge of ‘checking out’ from lack of access to libraries, I’m sure you’ll let me know.”

Neal put the Kindle down on his chest. “Was that a _library pun_?”

“Yes,” Peter admitted.

“Does Elizabeth think it’s cute when you say things like that?”

“As a matter of fact, she does.”

“You’re a very lucky man.” Pointedly, Neal picked the Kindle back up and resumed reading.

He didn’t need Neal to tell him _that_.

The evening passed without incident, and at 8:30 AM—which Peter’s body clock insisted was really 5:30—they met up with Ellison and Sandburg back at the warehouse. Sandburg was setting up a laptop on top of a crate just inside the door. “Hi,” he said with a quick grin. “If this works, I’ll be able to access the Art Loss database and some other resources from the University library on here, so we can look stuff up as you identify it.”

“Great,” Peter said. “Let’s start with identification; once we know what we have, we can use the Art Loss reports to figure out which ones we need to look at more closely as possible forgeries.”

Neal nodded. “Okay.”

“If you turn up anything that looks South American, I’m your huckleberry,” Sandburg said. “Otherwise I’ll stick with this--” he indicated the laptop “—and Jim. He’s still collecting trace evidence, but he’s cleared everything in the first two rows, so as long as you start there, you shouldn’t bump into him.”

“Is it going to be a problem if we bump into him?” Peter asked, thinking of Ellison’s reaction to their arrival yesterday.

“Nah. He’s a little territorial about crime scenes. Caffrey isn’t, is he?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Sandburg said with a wave. “Jim’s used to you now. Just don’t try to drive his truck. Anything we should know about your guy?”

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to look innocent.

“I think we covered everything yesterday,” Peter said. The Sentinel thing and the unrepentant but nonviolent felon thing were the major issues. 

“Okay.”

They went to the first row and started opening crates and cataloging the contents. To do the job thoroughly would take a full team and weeks of effort, but they were just doing a preliminary survey, identifying what they could without much research, and flagging for further investigation anything they didn’t know about. 

There were fewer of those than Peter would have expected. Neal’s knowledge of artists and styles was truly encyclopedic, and often when he didn’t recognize a given piece, he at least had an idea of where to begin researching. “Looks like a Klimpt,” he’d say, or “One of the minor German Symbolists, I think.” Sandburg, while apparently not knowing much about European art, was good at research, and often was able to make positive identification of a work if Neal gave him a starting point. 

They’d made it through the first row by the time Sandburg popped up to suggest they break for lunch. “We could start taking a closer look at some of the dubious ones after lunch,” Peter suggested. Between the two of them, Neal and Sandburg had flagged about a dozen works as potential forgeries, either because the originals had not been reported stolen or because Neal thought they ‘looked wrong.’

“Yeah, okay. I’m going to need better light,” Neal said, looking around at the slightly dim warehouse.

“You can use one of the evidence labs at the station,” Sandburg suggested. “We can crate up the ones you want to look at and take them over in the truck.”

“Sounds good,” Peter agreed. 

Neal was initially a little leery of accepting the other team’s help in re-packaging the artworks, but Sandburg quickly established his _bona fides_ in the packing of anthropological artifacts, which Neal was willing to accept as a reasonable equivalent to art transportation credentials.

Once everything was loaded into the back of Ellison’s pickup, they stretched a tarp over it. “You’re taking this to the police station first, right? You aren’t going to leave it sitting in the parking lot of that diner,” Neal said, in a tone more appropriate to, ‘You aren’t going to set the busload of nuns and orphans on fire, are you?’

Fortunately, Sandburg didn’t take offense. “No, we’ll secure them in the evidence room before letting the truck out of our sight.”

“We aren’t going to the diner, anyway,” Ellison said. “Are we, Chief?”

“No,” Sandburg said. “I’m gonna say…the Ethiopian place over by Rainier.” 

Ellison sighed heavily.

“It was actually my turn to pick yesterday,” Sandburg reminded Ellison with a poke. “But we went to your place instead.”

“Hm,” Neal said. “They take turns picking where to go for lunch. Interesting arrangement.”

“Yeah, we do,” Sandburg said. “You guys don’t have to come with us; I’d be happy to recommend some places.”

“They probably take turns _paying_ , too,” Peter pointed out.

“It’s not my fault I don’t make any money.”

“Actually, it kind of is,” Peter reminded him. 

Neal pouted for a moment, then said, “Don’t we have a per diem, anyway?”

“ _I_ do,” Peter said. It wasn’t quite sufficient to feed both of them, even if they stuck to cheap places, but he had known he was going to be making up the shortfall out of his own pocket.

“I don’t? You can’t use food stamps out of state. You’re telling me the FBI sent me out here to _starve_?”

“As long as you have plenty of water, you can live for weeks without eating,” Peter said. 

“Cruel and unusual, Peter, cruel and unusual.”

“Well, not being able to pick the restaurant doesn’t sound so bad compared to starving, does it?” 

“The FBI doesn’t _pay_ you?” Sandburg jumped in, sounding indignant on Neal’s behalf.

“He gets room, board, and a hundred bucks a month,” Peter said. 

“It’s a much better deal than I’d have in prison,” Neal added. “As I am frequently reminded.”

“A hundred bucks a month can’t go far in New York,” Sandburg commented. 

“It really doesn’t,” Neal agreed. “And it’s so nice to have an unbiased observer who is not a criminal agree with me on that point. I’m reduced to attending gallery openings for the free wine and cheese.”

“Reminds me of grad school,” Sandburg said. “Boy am I glad those days are over.”

“He was living in a rat-infested warehouse,” Ellison put in, sounding like the concept personally offended him. “Until the meth lab next door exploded.”

“Neal lives in a mansion with a lady who dotes on him and her 22-year-old art student granddaughter,” Peter said. “No rats. Don’t feel sorry for him.”

“It’s not _my_ mansion,” Neal pointed out. “I rent a room.”

“More of a studio apartment,” Peter explained. “View of the Chrysler building.”

“It is a very nice view,” Neal agreed. “I’m not denying that; I’m just saying it would be nice to pick a restaurant once in a while.”

“Well, I’m open to suggestions,” Peter said. “Provided they aren’t completely unreasonable.”

Neal, apparently realizing that he had won, said brightly, “I haven’t had Thai in a while.”

Sandburg recommended a couple of places, and they separated for lunch.

#

As they walked into the Cascade Police Department, Neal checked to make sure his tracking anklet was fully covered by his pants. Sure, Jim and Blair already knew, but there were plenty of other cops in the building, and he didn’t want anyone jumping to conclusions. He hadn’t been small-time enough to have to worry about local cops for years, but old habits died hard. 

Blair met them in the lobby and showed them up to the evidence lab, which resembled a larger version of the clean room they used for his Sentinel lessons back at the Bureau. “I wasn’t sure if you needed any equipment,” he said to Neal.

“Just a magnifying glass, for now,” Neal said. 

“I can get you one of those,” Sandburg agreed, and ducked out. 

Ellison was already in the lab, uncrating paintings and glowering. He wasn’t exactly friendly, but Neal had the impression it was more to do with Neal being a Sentinel than anything personal, or even anything to do with Neal being a criminal. According to his sources, government Sentinels were encouraged to distrust other Sentinels. 

Once Blair returned with the magnifying glass, Neal got to work. Blair proved to be very interested in what Neal was doing, and he started narrating what he was looking at and how he could tell if it was evidence of forgery or not, occasionally offering the other Guide the magnifying glass so he could see for himself what Neal was talking about.

Before long, Ellison joined them—more out of defensiveness over his Guide than any actual interest, Neal thought. But Ellison didn’t need the magnifying glass to see the features Neal was pointing out.

“Looks like there’s some more of those cracks over here,” Ellison said, pointing to a part of the canvas Neal hadn’t looked at yet. 

Neal suppressed an urge to point out that he wasn’t telling Ellison how to write parking tickets, was he? Ellison been using his senses since before Neal was _born_ ; it was only natural that he could take in all the details much more quickly than Neal could. Without using a magnifying glass. And he wouldn’t have known that the cracks were important if Neal hadn’t said so. “Good eye,” Neal said, after examining them.

“Sentinel,” Ellison reminded him. 

“Neal’s still learning,” Peter said. 

Neal _so_ appreciated his sharing that with everyone. Feeling an obscure need to prove himself as not _completely_ inadequate as a Sentinel, he put down the magnifying glass. They were in a clean room—and, hell, it was Wednesday. If they were in New York, he’d be having a lesson. “Peter, you want to--” He waggled his hand. 

“Sure.”

#

Peter had wondered whether Neal was going to start using his senses to examine the paintings. He didn’t want to push Neal, just in case he _was_ having some problems from being outside of his territory, but he couldn’t help but feel that having his Sentinel using a magnifying glass in front of the locals was just a little bit of an embarrassment to the FBI. 

As Neal moved on to the fourth painting, though, Peter started to wonder if he was overdoing it a little. He’d been working for almost as long as he did in lessons, and those still took a lot out of him. Even if Neal didn’t mind the discomfort, having him knocked on his ass would be even worse than the magnifying glass in terms of maintaining the Bureau’s reputation. 

Neal pulled his wrist out of Peter’s grip to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“You doing okay?” Peter asked. 

Neal blinked a few times and nodded. “Yeah.”

Peter wasn’t sure he believed him—Neal had been blatantly showing off at the beginning of the session, but had been growing steadily quieter since putting down the magnifying glass. He tried to think of a way to give Neal an opportunity to tap out without losing face in front of the other Sentinel. “You good to keep going?”

“Sure.”

Well, Peter wasn’t going to argue with him about it. He grasped Neal’s wrist again, and he got back to work. With the other paintings—including the one he started with the magnifying glass—Neal had drawn the rest of their attention to details of interest almost right away. This time, he said almost nothing, except for the occasional “Hm.” 

“Finding anything?” Peter asked after almost half an hour.

“We might need to send this one for spectrographic analysis. This red,” he pointed to a spot, “does not look 18th-century to me, but I’m not seeing anything conclusive.”

“Maybe you should look at it again tomorrow,” Peter suggested. It was a pretty un-subtle hint, but Neal had been working hard for nearly four hours now, and he was sure Neal wanted a repeat of the van incident even less than he did. 

“Okay.” Neal flexed his wrist as Peter released it. Upon straightening up, he staggered and clutched the edge of the table for support. “Oh, shit.”

“You okay?”

“No,” Neal said, panting. 

“Overdid it?”

“Yes.” He looked around, turning from the waist and not the neck, always a bad sign. “I’m just going to…” He folded over on himself. “Sit a minute.”

Ellison and Sandburg were staring. “He’s pretty much done for the day,” Peter said. He wished they’d leave; Neal didn’t like having an audience for this sort of thing. 

“No shit,” said Sandburg, his tone oddly flat. 

Neal squeezed his eyes shut and held his head in his hands. “Do you want some water?” Peter asked. Maybe he could send Ellison and Sandburg for it, and get them out of the room that way. 

Neal just whimpered. 

Peter started to say, “Maybe you could--” But Sandburg pushed past him, kneeling on the floor next to Neal. “What the hell--”

“Jim,” Sandburg said, his voice ice-cold. “Get this fucker out of here.”

“Gladly, Chief.” 

Before Peter had any idea what was happening, the other Sentinel had grabbed him by the collar of his suit jacket and was shoving him out of the room.

#

“Peter?” Neal said, looking around dazedly. He’d lost track of things somehow in the last few moments, but he was dimly aware that Peter wasn’t there. That wasn’t right. Peter was supposed to be there for things like this. It was even worse when he wasn’t.

“He’s with Jim,” the other Guide said. “Easy. Try to take deep, steady breaths.”

Neal tried. Every third or fourth breath was interrupted by a near-retch, but it did help. 

“Can you lean forward?”

He wasn’t sure why Sandburg was asking, but it was easier to just do it than ask. Sandburg, oddly, pushed up Neal’s jacket and untucked his shirt from his pants. “Hm?”

“Which sense is spiking on you?”

“Oh, God, all of them,” Neal said. The air circulation system, intended to be near-silent, sounded like a jet engine. The smell of old paint and canvas—which normally he _liked_ —made his gorge rise. Sandburg’s hands—now rubbing circles on his back, under his shirt—felt like…well, he didn’t know what they felt like, except that he imagined he could feel every ridge and furrow of his fingerprints, which might have been nice if it was Peter. As for sight, he was afraid to open his eyes; the last thing he saw had been a Pointillist hellscape. 

“I can’t link with you; Jim and I are Bonded.” Sandburg sounded frustrated about it.

“’sokay,” Neal said. “Done working.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Sandburg said. “Okay. Keep going with the breathing, you’re doing fine. Where are your dials?”

“Eleven,” Neal said. Ketner was right; there was absolutely nothing funny about dials that went up to eleven. 

“Okay. Let’s start with, uh, start with scent. Can you bring it down to ten for me?”

Sandburg talked him through lowering each of his dials, taking more time about it than Ketner had even at his first lesson. Neal knew that he ought to be able to remember how to do it on his own—he’d had plenty of practice by now—but somehow, it was easier with the other Guide telling him what to do. By the end of it, he was able to open his eyes, and things looked almost normal. 

Belatedly, he became aware that he was sitting on the floor of an evidence lab, with another Sentinel’s Guide rubbing his back. There was no way Ellison was going to be happy about that. He wasn’t quite ready to stand up yet, but he scooted away from Sandburg, saying, “I’m okay now. Thanks. That, uh, that helped.”

Sandburg nodded, biting his lip. 

“Is Peter coming back?” Neal asked, trying not to sound plaintive about it.

“Not unless he wants to be _shot_ , no,” Sandburg said. 

“What?” Okay, he must have missed more than he thought. Was this a kidnapping? That seemed unlikely. They were still in the police station, weren’t they? “He’s my Guide,” Neal pointed out. 

“He’s…Neal,” Sandburg said. 

“No, I’m Neal. He’s Peter. You can tell because of the anklet.” Somehow that struck him as hilariously funny. 

“Yeah, and he never lets you forget that, does he?” Sandburg said, sounding disgusted. “Listen. This is _not okay_. It’s so far from okay that you can’t see ‘okay’ from here. Even if you are a convicted felon, you still deserve a decent Guide.”

“Peter’s decent.” He was probably the most decent lawman Neal had ever met. 

“ _Peter_ ,” Sandburg said the name like a curse, “is the most disgustingly abusive Guide I’ve ever seen in my _life_.”

Okay, somewhere along the line, Sandburg must have misunderstood something. “Peter doesn’t hurt me.”

“He sure doesn’t _help_.”

“Yeah, he does.” Peter was the only thing that helped. “He’s a Guide.”

“He’s a disgrace to the entire profession,” Sandburg said. “You were having a massive sensory episode, and he was just _standing_ there.”

What else was he supposed to do? “He’d have taken me home as soon as I could get up. He always does.” What he wouldn’t give to be in his own bed, with Peter sitting next to him and maybe patting him on the shoulder, instead of having this confusing conversation. 

“This happens a lot?”

“Not as much as it used to,” Neal said. “I overdid it a little bit today, like Peter said.”

“How long did you keep working after you started having trouble?”

“’bout an hour.” In retrospect, he should have stopped about twenty minutes before he did. 

“And that—is that what you do? Just keep working until you fall over?”

“No.” That would be stupid. “I try to stop a little before that.” 

“ _Christ_ ,” Sandburg said again. “Doesn’t the FBI have any kind of Sentinel protection policies? They have to; it’s the federal government.”

“Yeah, that’s the booklet that doesn’t apply to me,” Neal said. Sometimes he sort of resented the existence of that booklet. “Officially, I’m an inmate of the federal prison system. And—Peter’s kind of a pain in the ass about it, but this deal _is_ a lot better than prison; he’s not wrong. If I want to keep it, I have to keep working on getting the senses under control. It’s not usually a lot of fun, but it’s what I asked for.”

“You asked for this,” Sandburg said. 

“Yes. It’s…essentially a work release arrangement. The work is a little harder than I thought it would be,” he admitted, “but it’s getting better. I’m getting better. And it’s not forever.” He would miss Peter, actually, when it was over, but he wouldn’t miss his Sentinel lessons, that was for sure.

“How much time’s left on your sentence?”

“A little over three and a half years.” Neal smiled. “You know what’s funny? I’d have been a free man months ago if I hadn’t broken out of prison to look for Kate—my girlfriend. She was a Guide, too.”

“Yeah, that’s fucking hilarious,” Sandburg said.

#

As soon as they were out of the clean room, Ellison reversed his grip on Peter and slammed him into the wall. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

“What the fuck is _my_ problem?” Peter said incredulously. “I’m not the one assaulting a federal agent, pal.”

“Yeah, you’re not going to find much sympathy around here for a Fed Guide who can’t be bothered to do his goddamn _job_.” Ellison released his grip on Peter’s shirt front, pacing a few steps up and down in front of him. 

“I do my job just fine.” He glanced over at the door. “Or I would be if you hadn’t _dragged me out of the room_.” Who the hell did Ellison and Sandburg think they were?

“Right. You were doing your job so well that my Guide’s in there doing it for you. Do you care about him at all?”

For a second, Peter thought Ellison meant Sandburg. “Neal? Of course I do.” He was starting to have an idea what this was about. “Look, this isn’t an _emergency_. Neal just started his Sentinel training a few months ago. He’s getting pretty good at using his senses, but if he overdoes it he gets—like that. The trainer’s not sure why that side of things isn’t improving very quickly, but it’s all under control. I’ll take him home—back to the motel—and make sure he rests for a while; he’ll be fine.”

Ellison stared at him. “You actually believe that,” he said. 

It didn’t sound like a question, but Peter said, “Yes,” anyway. 

“Where did you get your Guide training? The Army?” Ellison now sounded more curious than outraged—although it was a pretty close race. “Sandburg says their program is a disgrace.”

“What Guide training?” Peter asked. “I go along to Neal’s lessons, of course.”

“The FBI doesn’t train Guides at _all_?” 

“They probably have a class at Quantico,” Peter said. “I was, uh, UnRegistered.” Ellison was going to love that, he knew. He had “military” written all over him. 

“So was Sandburg,” Ellison said. “Which is why when he decided to be my Guide, the PD _sent him to school_ instead of just handing him a Sentinel.”

“There really isn’t that much to it, is there?” Peter asked, confused. “It’s pretty much instinct and doing what the Sentinel asks for.” That was what he’d always heard, anyway.

Ellison shook his head. “Normally I’d warn you not to say that in front of Sandburg, but I think you could use his lecture on that particular subject. Pop quiz: Your Sentinel is having a massive episode of sensory distress, which you were apparently too stupid to see coming or do anything to prevent. _What do you do?_ I’ll give you a hint—it’s not stand there with your thumb up your ass.”

“I….” Peter had no idea. And the situation was not a hypothetical. If the episode Neal was currently having was what Ellison meant by “massive,” it was a situation he faced at least twice a week. And he usually did…pretty much what Ellison had just described. “Okay. What would Sandburg do if it was you in there?” Clearly, there was a lot he didn’t know, and there was no time like the present to start learning more. 

“First of all, he wouldn’t have let it happen. You have a Sentinel in training, you don’t keep him doing sense work beyond the first signs that he’s having trouble.”

“I asked him if he wanted to stop,” Peter pointed out. Maybe there were things about being a Guide that he didn’t know, but he wasn’t a _slave-driver_. 

“That’s lesson two. You don’t _ask_ , because we’re all stubborn assholes, especially if there’s another Sentinel in the room. You tell him he’s taking a break whether he likes it or not.”

“Ketner—the FBI Sentinel trainer—always keeps him working for the whole session.” And Ketner would know, wouldn’t he? Maybe Sandburg was just a very soft Guide. 

“Then either he’s an _idiot_ or he thinks that since you’re the Guide, you’ll be the one to say when your Sentinel’s had enough. In that case, he’s _still_ an idiot not to have noticed what a piss-poor excuse for a Guide you are.” He shook his head. “This Ketner, is he a Sentinel?”

“No.” Peter wasn’t sure what difference that made. 

“Guide?”

“No.”

“A fucking _mundane_?”

“If that means somebody who isn’t a Sentinel or a Guide, yes.”

“Unbelievable. And you have no idea why that’s a problem, do you.”

Again, it wasn’t a question, but Peter said, “Not really, no.”

“If neither of you has the _slightest clue_ what you’re doing, and you obviously don’t, you need somebody in the room who knows what it’s like, not just theory,” Ellison said.

“I don’t know what I can do about that,” Peter said, seizing on the one aspect of this situation that wasn’t completely his fault. “He’s the guy the Bureau sent.”

Ellison glanced over at the door. “I’m sure Sandburg’ll have some ideas. Starting with getting your guy a different Guide. One who knows what he’s doing.”

“That’s…unlikely,” Peter said. He was surprised to find that his first thought was not, _wouldn’t that be nice?_ But _No, he’s_ mine. “He’s a felon on work-release. His Guide has to be his handler, too, and that means a full Agent. Most of the Bureau’s Guides aren’t. Plus I caught him twice; they figure I’d at least have a shot at bringing him back in if he runs.”

“You _arrested_ your Sentinel?” Ellison sounded scandalized.

“He wasn’t my Sentinel at the time,” Peter pointed out. “I didn’t even know he was a Sentinel at all. I know, it’s a…weird arrangement. I have to control him; it’s not the usual Sentinel/Guide dynamic.”

Ellison nodded. “I can see how it’s challenging. But that’s all the more reason you should be getting the best training available, not some half-assed…well, Sandburg will have ideas. He always does.”

There was something about the way Ellison said it that suggested rock-solid trust that his Guide would understand the problem and know what to do about it. Neal didn’t have anything like that kind of trust in him—and he shouldn’t, given that Peter was apparently abysmally ignorant of the most basic aspects of his job. But maybe that was what it was supposed to be like. He knew—since Elizabeth had pointed it out—that Neal didn’t like to show weakness in front of him. Maybe Peter should have been encouraging him to do just that. To believe that Peter cared about his problems—even the stupid ones. Maybe, for example, instead of reminding Neal that plenty of people managed to eat just fine on two hundred bucks a month, he could have offered to sit down with him and help him figure out what to buy  
so he wouldn’t run out of money three weeks into the month. Maybe if he’d done that, Neal would have trusted him to help with his real problems.

“Step one is going to be getting him to not kill you, though,” Ellison added.

Peter looked for a sign that Ellison was joking, and didn’t see one. “I screwed up. I am on board with that now. I’m so ignorant I don’t even know how ignorant I am. Please help us.”

“That’s good,” Ellison said. “Sandburg’ll like that.”

Peter had actually been asking, not proposing a Sandburg-wrangling strategy, but decided not to say so.

Ellison listened at the clean room door for a moment—why, Peter wasn’t sure; it was supposed to be soundproof. Motioning for Peter to stay—the same flat-palmed gesture they used with Satch—he slipped inside the room. 

A moment later, Neal came to the door, his shirt untucked and his tie askew. “Peter. You, uh, want to come in?”

“Sure.”

Peter went inside. Sandburg was sitting cross-legged on top of the other lab bench—the one that wasn’t covered in possibly-forged works of art—and saying, “I have a better idea. Why don’t we haul him in front of the Guide Council and have him _shot_?”

“He’s, um, a little excitable,” Neal said. 

He was _right_ , was what he was. Shooting might have been a little extreme, but Peter clearly had not been doing his job. Before Peter could say so, Sandburg pointed at him and said, “You. I don’t care if your Sentinel is a goddamn _axe murderer_. He still has a right to a competent, caring Guide.”

“Actually,” Neal said, “I don’t. The law specifies ‘adequate.’” 

Peter winced. 

“Fuck the law,” Sandburg said. “I’m talking about _basic human decency_ here. And if that,” he indicated Peter again, “is _adequate_ , I’m a, a, _Republican_.”

“You obviously haven’t read the case law,” Neal said. “The legal definition of ‘adequate’ for Sentinel inmates used to be an hour of Guide contact a day—and I’m getting about ten times that, by the way—until _US Guide Council v. United States of America_ , when your people argued that ‘adequate’ ought to be determined based on level of function. The Supreme Court agreed, and ruled that all of the members of the class action suit who weren’t catatonic, were able to eat, and weren’t in ‘constant or near constant sensory distress’ were receiving functionally adequate Guidance. By either the old standard or the new one, Peter is about as much better than _adequate_ as my studio apartment in the mansion is better than a prison cell.”

Peter was genuinely unsure whether the comparison was flattering or heartbreaking. He had thought he was doing all right by Neal—and Neal had agreed, but only because he knew exactly how grim the alternative was. “Neal, I didn’t know that. I wasn’t trying to be just barely better than a prison Guide.”

“You’re a lot better than that. I know this isn’t something you wanted, but you’re doing okay. You’re a good Guide. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, and I am a terrible Guide,” Peter said. “You deserve better.”

An expression of panic passed over Neal’s face. “Peter, there isn’t anybody else. If you stop being my Guide—or if Blair manages to have you fired, shot, or strangled with your own entrails—I don’t get a better Guide; I go back to prison.”

“I know,” Peter said. “I know, and I’m not going to let that happen. You need a better Guide; I’m going to learn to be one. I am--” he glanced over at Sandburg “—completely incompetent, but I do care.”

“I know you do.” 

For a second, Peter must have had the ability Neal believed he did, to tell when he was lying. He was as certain that Neal was lying now as he was that Neal was standing in front of him. Peter had never given him the slightest reason to believe that he cared about him. He wondered if Neal thought this was a _scam_ , to convince Sandburg and Ellison had seen the error of his ways so they’d get off his back. That he wasn’t repentant, just sorry he’d been caught. “I do. I’m going to learn to do this right. And I hope these guys will help us get started,” he added, looking over at Sandburg and Ellison.

“He seems pretty sincere, Chief,” Ellison said. “He doesn’t know anything, and the FBI didn’t do him or Caffrey any favors by throwing him into this without any training. He was UnRegistered,” he added. “Until this. Somehow.”

“An UnRegistered Fed?” Sandburg sounded skeptical.

“I lied,” Peter said. “About being a Guide, I mean. The application asked if I was a Sentinel or a Guide; I checked ‘no’ and signed on the line below where it said I swore under penalty of perjury that all information was true and correct to the best of my knowledge and belief.” 

“They would have checked your Selective Service paperwork,” Sandburg said. 

“They stopped doing testing at my school the year before,” Peter explained. “And there was a doctor in town who had a pretty profitable sideline in bogus draft physicals.”

“Yeah, I know a few of those,” Sandburg said. “That still doesn’t explain why you decided to start Guiding a Sentinel now, without bothering to learn the first thing about it.”

“He didn’t really decide,” Neal said. “It…it’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Sandburg scoffed. 

Peter looked over at Neal. He was upright and seemed fairly steady on his feet, but he’d had a rough day, and the one thing Peter _did_ know was that he needed to rest, not stand here trying to defend Peter against this other Guide’s entirely-justified accusations of incompetence and cruelty. “Look,” he said, “we should—we should talk about this more, but this isn’t a good time.”

“ _Really,_ ” Sandburg said.

“Chief.” Ellison put his hand on his shoulder. “Settle down. What should Burke be doing for Neal?” Sandburg took a deep breath, but Ellison cut him off. “Right now, I mean.”

“ _Don’t_ make him work anymore.”

“I knew that,” Peter said.

“Let him rest,” Sandburg continued. “A quiet, familiar environment is best, but putting him on a plane would _not_ be a good idea, so you’ll have to make do with your hotel, I guess. If you can possibly stand it, take a break from picking on him for a while. If he starts spiking again, link with him and talk him through it—it’s not rocket science; he’s actually very easy to work with. Do you ever touch him at _all_?”

“Sure,” Peter said. “Not as much as you guys do, but some.”

Sandburg looked pained.

Neal volunteered, “Usually, when he takes me home after lessons, he’ll sit there with his hand on my shoulder for a while.” He ducked his head and looked up at Peter. “That’s nice; I like that.”

Sandburg closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment or two. “Okay. That’s good. That’s a start. Maybe I’ll have him horsewhipped instead of shot. Are you _dressed_ when he does that?”

“Yes?” Neal said, looking puzzled. 

After a few more minutes of deep breathing, Sandburg said, “Okay. And you have no idea why that’s a problem, because the fact that Sentinels need skin-to-skin contact with Guides is news to you.”

“Right,” Peter said.

“Seriously, do they not have _Google_ on your planet?” Sandburg asked.

“I didn’t know that, either,” Neal offered.

“Didn’t Kate touch you, either?” It sounded like Sandburg wondered how Neal had managed to be stuck with two useless Guides in a row.

“Yeah, but she was my girlfriend,” Neal said. “And we only had no-contact visits in prison. It worked okay.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t use your senses much in prison,” Sandburg said. 

“No,” Neal admitted. “Not at all, really.”

“That makes a difference. All right. Go home, rest, skin-to-skin contact—several hours of it. Something simple for dinner, a good night’s sleep, and in the morning we’ll figure out where we go from here,” Sandburg summarized. “Do you think you can handle that?” he asked Peter.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Sandburg said. “I realize you probably have all kinds of weird, North American, homophobic hang-ups about physical contact, but just,” he gestured with both hands, “get over it. It’s normal for Sentinels and Guides to touch. Normal, and necessary.”

“It is,” Ellison said. “Since you were both UnRegistered, you might not have noticed—most of us tone it down a lot around mundanes. But if you’re not touching him as much or more as you do your wife, you’re doing it wrong.”

Peter tried not to wince visibly. Yes, they had established that he was doing it wrong. “Okay. You ready to go home?” he said to Neal.

Neal nodded. “Yes.” He gave the other two a low-watt smile. “See you guys tomorrow.”

Sandburg and Ellison walked them to the car. Peter couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Sandburg was half-expecting him to punch Neal in the face, or worse, as soon as they were out of sight. And, with that thought in mind, when they were in the car on the way to the motel and Peter said, “I’m going to do better by you, I really am,” even to himself he sounded like a wife-beater. 

“It’s really not that bad,” Neal said. 

Peter had told Sandburg it was a bad time for them to argue about this, and it still was. “It’s bad enough. We can talk about it later.”

Neal nodded. “Okay.”

Now Peter wondered if he was just acquiescing to Peter’s demands because he didn’t want to go back to prison. “Unless you feel like we need to talk about it now,” he amended.

“I’m fine.”

Back at the motel, Peter set about adjusting the heating and closing the drapes. He had managed to pick up a few things—when Peter took him home after lessons, Neal liked the room to be dim and a little cool. 

“We don’t actually have to do this, Peter,” Neal said, sitting on the edge of Peter’s bed. “I’m better, really.”

“Would it _help_ if we did? Don’t lie,” he added, remembering Ellison’s comment about Sentinels being stubborn assholes.

“Probably, but I’m really okay. I could have kept working, even.”

Yeah, Neal was okay—because he’d gotten ten minutes of attention from a Guide who actually had a clue what he was doing. After Peter had been neglecting him for months. Peter tossed his jacket onto the other bed and started undoing his tie. “Come on, you don’t want that hyperactive little guy to shoot me.” He hoped that wouldn’t count as breaking Sandburg’s rule about picking on Neal; he didn’t think either of them could handle being emotionally honest _and_ cuddling at the same time. 

“He was willing to consider horsewhipping, at the end,” Neal said. 

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly enjoy that, either.” The tie joined the jacket, and he started on his shirt buttons. 

“Are you planning to strip down completely?” Neal wondered.

“He said skin-to-skin contact,” Peter said dubiously. “Shirts off should be enough.”

“Right, because as long as we keep our pants on, this won’t be weird.” 

“Give me your jacket; I’ll hang it up.” Peter knew Neal wouldn’t be happy tossing his Devore suit-coat onto the other bed or over a chair. 

Neal looked mulish.

“I will tackle you and tear it from your body.”

“You will not.” 

“Try me.” 

Peter wouldn’t have actually done it—this was supposed to be about Neal’s well-being, and even though he was looking a little less green than he had an hour ago, tackling him and forcibly tearing his clothes off wouldn’t help him feel better. But Neal was apparently unwilling to risk it, and took off his jacket, holding it out for Peter to take.

He insisted that Peter hang up his shirt and tie, too, and put his tie clip in the little tray on the dresser that Neal had brought along expressly for that purpose. That reassured him that Neal wasn’t feeling bullied into this. 

When they were both stripped to the waist, Peter’s courage began to fail him. “It’s not weird,” he said. “It’s perfectly normal for Sentinels.” The other Guide and his Sentinel had both said so. “You and Kate…”

“She was my girlfriend,” Neal reminded him. Standing up, he pulled down the obnoxiously floral bedspread. 

“Do we need to be under the covers?” Somehow, that made the whole thing seem weirder. 

“No,” Neal said. “But that thing is covered in other people’s dead skin cells. The sheets, they wash between guests. Take off your shoes.” 

As Peter did so, Neal removed his own and slowly got onto the bed, lying down on his side. Peter joined him.

It wasn’t the first time he’d shared a bed with another man, but those had been strictly stick-to-your-own-side arrangements. That wasn’t going to work here. Peter inched forward until his chest was pressed against Neal’s bare back. “How’s this?”

“Little weird.” 

Peter had to agree. One of Peter’s arms was crushed beneath him, and the other was lying stiffly along his own side. Both he and Neal were stretched out straight like planks. That couldn’t possibly be right. He wondered if properly-trained Guides got diagrams or something.

He knew how to do this. He and El spooned all the time. If it was her next to him, instead of Neal, he’d have his arm around her waist. He tried that.

A little better. What else? There was a slight bend at the hips, a larger one at the knees, that made two bodies fit together like this. He made the adjustments. Neal didn’t; now he was a spoon nestled behind a plank. “Neal….”

“You really don’t have to do this,” Neal said. “I mean, I know it’s not…we’re not…you’re not really my Guide.”

Okay, so maybe he’d been wrong about not mixing honesty with cuddling. “Yes, I am,” Peter said. A lousy one, but he was Neal’s Guide.

“We both know that’s just something I made up to get out of prison. I don’t need all this.”

“You didn’t make it up.” Neal couldn’t possibly believe that was true—the Bureau had had him tested, after he told them about Neal’s request. The request that Peter had thought was a blackmail attempt. “You really need a Guide, and I really am one.”

“I didn’t need one in prison,” Neal said. “Weekly no-contact visits; I was fine. Here I’m in the same room with you every day. I shouldn’t need anything else.”

“Turns out you do.” He flattened his hand over Neal’s abdomen. Neal startled away from the contact, driving himself further back into Peter’s chest. His knees and hips bent to echo the curve of Peter’s. “Better?”

Neal took a deep breath and…relaxed. “I’m not asking you to do this.”

“I know you’re not.” Because Neal didn’t ask for anything he really wanted. His body was a warm, solid weight against Peter’s. “It’s helping?”

“Yeah. It’s helping.” 

“Good.”

#

When Neal woke with a warm body pressed against his back, and an arm draped over his side, his first thought was _Kate_. Then he took a breath, and his nose was filled with Peter’s scent. Right. Peter. Asleep at his back, his breathing ruffling the hair on the back of Neal’s neck.

What a strange, confusing day it had been. It was a little embarrassing to remember the little Guide, Blair, squawking in indignant outrage over Neal’s cruel victimization at the hands of the FBI. Looking back on it, he realized that the more he protested that he was fine, Peter was fine, everything was fine, the more pathetic he must have seemed. 

But the embarrassment was nothing compared to the sheer _relief_ of learning that what he’d been going through at least twice a week for the last couple of months wasn’t normal. He’d sometimes thought it couldn’t possibly be, or there’d be no way anyone would volunteer for it, without the threat of prison hanging over their heads. But then again, he’d thought, maybe he was just a pussy compared to the real FBI Sentinels. 

Blair and Ellison’s reactions made clear that whatever the problem was, it wasn’t him being too weak to handle a little pain that all Sentinels went through. It was, as Peter would say, a real problem. And a real problem meant he got help with it. 

The way they talked about Peter had been pretty insulting, but Neal had to remind himself that they didn’t know Peter. Peter was never going to fuss over him the way Blair did for Ellison, but he gave Neal what he needed—or what he thought Neal needed, anyway. If Neal asked to go home, Peter took him home. And sat with him, without even making Neal ask for that. Now that Peter knew there were other things he could be doing, he’d find out what they were and do them.

Maybe not all of them. Neal patted Peter’s hand, which was splayed on his belly. This, probably not often, but he was doing it now—if Neal really needed it, he’d do it again. But they’d figure out what helped Neal the most, and what Peter could live with, and work out a balance. It was bound to be better.

Blair, he remembered, had said that he was ‘actually very easy to work with.’ Ellison probably needed Blair to fuss over him the way he did. Neal didn’t. Once they figured out what actually worked, he probably wouldn’t need any more of Peter’s time or attention than he was getting now. Like how Blair had talked him through adjusting his dials. He wasn’t sure why that helped—Blair hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know—but it did help. A few minutes of that had done him about as much good as Peter sitting with him for an hour after his lessons, and was much more efficient. If he could have both, that would be great, but if Peter needed to get back to work or home to Elizabeth, he could do that, too. It could very well turn out that Peter getting some training made life easier for both of them. 

Behind him, Peter stirred. Neal wondered if he was going to make the same mistake Neal had, and think at first that he was Elizabeth, and if so, would it be funny or horrifying. But Peter patted Neal’s stomach and said, “Neal. How’re you feeling?”

“Good,” Neal said, surprised to realize it was true. He usually woke up two or three hours after his lessons feeling basically okay, but a little precarious, like he could stop being okay at any moment. Dinner on those nights generally consisted of either ginger ale and toast or mint tea and plain rice; after he was sure that was going to stay down, he might try something really daring like an apple or a banana. Then he puttered around the apartment for a couple of hours and went back to bed early. By morning, he was ready to face the world. But now, he really felt fine. He felt like Tuesday, when it had been five days since he’d done a lesson. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Neal repeated. He unwrapped Peter’s arm from around his waist and sat up, experimentally. Still fine. Peter was sitting up, too, and Neal moved over to his own bed. 

“You don’t have to move,” Peter said. 

“I’m really okay,” Neal said. “And even if we are a Sentinel and Guide, recreational cuddling would be weird.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Peter looked at his watch and winced. 

Neal looked at his own. It was past eight. “If you’re going to call, you should do it now,” he said. “I’ll take a shower; sleeping during the day always makes me feel messy.”

Peter didn’t give him a hard time about that, fortunately. Showering after an “episode” was usually a bit of a risk—he usually felt downright disgusting, not just messy, but the sound of the water or the smell of his supposedly-unscented shampoo and soap could sometimes do weird things to him. Today, though, it all went off without a hitch. By the time he left the bathroom, Peter was finishing up his phone call.

“Yeah, it’s…I don’t know. Listen, I think we’re going to go get some dinner. Yep. Love you too.” He put the phone back in the pocket of his jacket, which he’d put back on at some point. “Do you feel up to going out to eat? I could bring something back, or, I don’t know….”

“That’s fine,” Neal said. “I really feel pretty good.”

“Good as in better than catatonic, or actually good?”

“Actually good.” 

Peter seemed to accept that. “All right. Is the place across the street all right?”

Wow, he was really being careful now. Neal was torn between trying again to assure him that he really, genuinely, truly did not need to be fussed over and milking it for all it was worth. 

Milking it would have been more tempting if he knew more about restaurants in Cascade, but, figuring he was going to be stuck with Peter’s choices anyway, he hadn’t done any research, so he didn’t know what he could plausibly ask for. 

Plus, he had picked lunch. “Across the street’s fine.”

At some point while they had been asleep, the rain had stopped. The air smelled fresh and clean, and there were birds—something other than pigeons—flitting around. It was kind of nice to be out of Manhattan for a change, he decided. 

In the restaurant, Neal ordered a steak and, throwing caution to the wind, a glass of wine. He might as well milk it a little bit. Peter didn’t say a word about it. 

“So,” Peter said, once the waitress had left with their orders.

He was going to bring up the subject of how he was the worst Guide in the universe again, Neal figured. He’d rather keep that subject tabled for a while longer. “Shouldn’t take us more than a week to get through the rest of the warehouse,” Neal said, making a clumsy but emphatic attempt to establish another topic.

Peter followed his lead. They talked about the case, segueing by way of a discussion of the former smuggler’s impressive collection into the subject of painting more generally. Peter, unsurprisingly, favored the more representational painters, though he stopped short of trotting out the “A five-year-old kid could do that” cliché the artistically ignorant used to disparage abstract work. 

“No, yeah, anybody can paint horizontal bands,” Neal said, “but Rothko’s really about color. First you stand back and see the contrast between the big blocks of color, then you go in close and look at the variation within each color band. It takes at least twenty minutes to really appreciate a Rothko.” Neal swirled the last of his wine around in the glass, considering. “And he did some really innovative stuff with mixing and layering—some of it nobody can even figure out how he did, even with electron microscopes and spectrographic analysis. It would be easier to forge a Monet than a Rothko.”

“Theoretically.” Peter grinned.

“Theoretically,” Neal agreed. “Plus he’s the guy who said, ‘As an artist you have to be a thief and steal a place for yourself on the rich man’s wall.’ You have to love that.”

Peter shook his head, still smiling. “Why aren’t you an artist, or a restorer, an art historian, something like that? Why crime?”

“I blame society,” Neal quipped. 

Peter laughed. “Okay, I guess that’s kind of a personal question.”

Neal shrugged. “Restoration, I think I would have liked, but I was already a criminal before I learned that job existed. It wasn’t like I sat down, looked at all the options, and picked crime. But I didn’t really have the drive, or the focus, or whatever it is, to figure out what I wanted and find a way to get it like you did, Harvard scholarship boy.” He shrugged. “And crime is always hiring. I worked my way up from the mailroom to the corner office.”

The waitress came over and asked, for the second time, if they wanted dessert or perhaps the check.

“We done here?” Peter asked.

“I’m done,” Neal said.

“The check’s fine, please,” Peter told the waitress. She handed it to him immediately and waited while he got his credit card out.

“Better give her a good tip,” Neal advised as the waitress walked away. “She probably won’t be able to turn this table back over before they close.”

“I know,” Peter said. “I waited tables as a Harvard scholarship boy.” 

It was fully dark when they left the restaurant to head back to the motel. 

They walked in silence for a few moments, until Peter said, “I really had no idea I wasn’t doing what I should be doing as your Guide. It was never about thinking you didn’t deserve better.”

“I know,” Neal told him. “I didn’t know, either. I knew I felt pretty bad, but Ketner seemed to think that was normal. Let’s blame him,” he suggested. 

“He probably thought I knew what I was doing,” Peter said gloomily.

“Maybe. But even so, from what Blair said, it sounds like he should have realized something wasn’t right and tried to figure out what the problem was. He saw pretty much the same things they saw, and he said to keep doing what we were doing and eventually it would get better. It’s not like we were idiots to believe him. He’s supposed to be the expert.”

“I’m getting the impression I’m supposed to be the expert.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not. Remember the warehouse?”

“What about it? You were okay there, weren’t you?”

“Not the warehouse here, the one with the Dutchman case. You figured out I didn’t know how to do what you needed me to do--”

“There wasn’t any reason you should have known.”

“Exactly,” Neal said. “See, I can do morals, too.” He bumped Peter’s shoulder with his. 

“Okay, fair enough,” Peter agreed. “But you not knowing how to do scent discrimination wasn’t causing me physical pain.”

“It’s not a perfect analogy,” Neal conceded, standing aside so Peter could unlock their room.

“If it had been Elizabeth barely able to walk upright two days a week,” Peter said as they went inside, “I would have been breaking down doors to find a way to fix it. I wouldn’t have taken ‘it’s normal’ for an answer.”

“Yeah, well, she’s your wife. I’m your felon.” Neal wasn’t sure why Peter thought there was any comparison to be made.

“You’re my _Sentinel_.” 

“A Sentinel you never wanted and the FBI made you take custody of,” Neal reminded him. “There’s nothing shocking or barbaric about you not…throwing yourself into it.” He took off his jacket and hung it up. “You have a--” He gestured at Peter. “—life. I asked you to be my Guide in the first place because I like you; the last thing I want to do is screw things up for you.”

“Right,” Peter said, sitting down on his bed heavily. “Because first you thought you ruined my life, and then once we got that straightened out, we started the no complaining deal. The deal where if you suggested you were less than deliriously happy with your life, I could remind you how much worse prison would be.”

“Yeah,” Neal agreed. 

“Prison,” Peter said. “With the catatonia and the constant or near-constant sensory distress.”

“Right. Prison, which I made this deal to avoid.”

“Right,” Peter echoed. “The deal where I don’t care about your problems so you should just shut up about them. That deal.”

“I was referring to the anklet deal, actually,” Neal said. “But the complaining deal is fine, too. We’ve been getting along a lot better since then.” He thought so, at least. He was pretty sure Peter didn’t hate him anymore. And really, he felt a lot better about his money and food situations when he wasn’t dwelling on them all the time.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “If by ‘getting along’ you mean ‘suffering and not saying anything because you think I don’t care.’”

Oh, he was on _that_ again. “You did say I should tell you if I had a problem you could help me with. And—like we’ve been saying—neither of us knew you could be doing more than you were to help me with the sensory stuff. Now we know, and you’re going to help.” He shrugged. “Everything’s good.”

“That’s how you sum up this day? ‘Everything’s good’?”

Neal shrugged. “How would you sum it up?”

“I’d sum it up as the day when I worked my Sentinel into a massive episode of sensory distress, for probably the twentieth time, and did absolutely nothing about it until two near-strangers pointed out my appalling negligence.”

“Okay,” Neal said slowly. “I guess that’s another way to see it. I like mine better. Now, if you don’t have plans for the TV, Jon Stewart’s on.”

#

Peter went to take a shower, leaving Neal to watch his program. He couldn’t figure out if Neal was really able to shake off the pain of the last few months and look forward happily to a better future, if he was putting up a front, or if he had some kind of Sentinel Stockholm syndrome. Neal _ought_ to have been angry at him. Maybe it would be easier on Peter if he was.

When he came out of the bathroom, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, he found Cyndi’s Kindle on his pillow. 

“Got you something,” Neal said, not looking away from the TV.

Peter picked up the Kindle. On the screen was the title page of _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_. “Well, that was easy,” he said. Apparently he could have solved their problem a long time ago if it had occurred to him to go to Amazon and type the word “Sentinel.” 

“Uh-huh. Here’s an idea: why don’t you say ‘thank you’ and start reading, instead of angsting about it for another twenty minutes?”

“…thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After taking a moment to figure out how to turn the pages, Peter started reading. He saw quickly that the book was meant for someone who, like him, knew next to nothing about Sentinels or Guides. However, the authors clearly never imagined that the working Guide would need such basic information—instead, they wrote for newly-identified teenagers looking to get an idea of what their lives would be like, the parents of those teenagers, or mundanes (“a term used by some Sentinels and Guides to refer to individuals who are not Sentinels or Guides,” the book helpfully explained) who were working, living, or otherwise associating with a Sentinel or Guide. 

The first couple of chapters were an overview of how the senses worked, in mundanes and in Sentinels. The next one was about history. Peter was aware, of course, of the movement for Sentinel and Guide civil rights that started after World War Two—it was hard not to be, even if you _weren’t_ a Guide—but he was surprised to read how bad things had been, not that long ago. Over on the other bed, Neal turned off the television and got under the covers. “Night, Peter.”

“Night.” He quickly turned off the device and shut off the light, still thinking about what he had read. It sounded like something out of the dark ages, but at the time Peter’s own father had been a teenager, Guides had no right to work as anything other than Guides, nor to choose what Sentinel they worked with. In those days, it was _possible_ Peter could have ended up assigned to the FBI, after his compulsory military service was completed, but he wouldn’t married to Elizabeth, and—well, his Sentinel would have had even more power over him than he had over Neal. A sidebar noted that anthropologists studying Sentinels and Guides in non-industrialized countries had been at the forefront of the civil rights movement, proving that the way the US and Europe did things was neither natural nor necessary. Sandburg probably knew all about it—maybe that accounted for some of his visceral horror at what had to seem like a mirror image of the bad old days. 

With that on his mind, Peter didn’t sleep well, but he slept. In the groggy light of the morning, Neal came back to the room with free lobby coffee, seeming obnoxiously chipper. 

Peter tried to mentally delete the “obnoxiously” part. Neal was happy. That was good. Now that he’d slept on it, he thought he understood why Neal found yesterday’s developments so un-troubling. For Peter, the realization that Neal had been suffering needlessly for months had been a shock. But Neal knew exactly how much he had been suffering; for him, the new information was that it was going to get better. No wonder he was happy. 

“According to the desk clerk, there’s a place six blocks that way that has great omelets,” he reported, pointing with one coffee cup as he handed Peter the other. 

“Great.” It was also a good thing, he told himself, that Neal was apparently fully confident that Peter wasn’t going to yank his restaurant-picking privileges. 

The omelets proved to be delicious, and the coffee almost as good as at Neal’s place—although it may have just come out especially well in comparison to the lobby coffee that Peter had drunk while getting shaved and dressed. Neal was chatty and relaxed over the meal, though there was something a little pointed in the way he steered the conversation toward innocuous topics. Didn’t want Peter ruining a nice meal with his “angst,” Peter supposed. 

They met up with Sandburg and Ellison in their office at the police station. “Here,” Sandburg said, handing Peter a stack of books, one of which had his name on the cover, and all of which looked considerably more substantial than _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_. 

“Uh, thanks.” 

“I want those back after you’ve had a chance to buy your own copies.”

“Okay,” Peter said meekly. 

Neal looked at them. “Oh, good. You can start on those after you finish the one I got you.”

“What’s that?” Sandburg wanted to know. 

“ _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_ ,” Neal said.

Sandburg nodded. “Good choice.”

“Hey!” Neal snapped. 

Ellison moved to take a step closer to his Guide, but Sandburg fended him off. “Oh, sorry. I wasn’t trying to be catty; it actually is a good book. Very basic, obviously, and it oversimplifies some things, but it’s pretty accurate as far as it goes.”

“It had four and a half stars on Amazon,” Neal said. 

“Did you get to page 84 yet?” Ellison asked.

“No,” Peter said. He’d stopped somewhere around page 50. “Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Now Peter was curious, but Ellison wouldn’t say anything more about it. It couldn’t be a sex thing; the sex chapter was toward the back of the book. 

Next, Sandburg turned to Neal and handed him an envelope. “The Department’s paying your per diem. That covers you Tuesday through Sunday; if you haven’t gone back to New York by Monday, we’ll get you more.”

“Uh,” Neal said, looking at Peter. “You know Peter’s not _actually_ going to let me starve, right?”

“Don’t argue with him, kid,” Ellison advised.

Neal apparently decided to ignore his advice. “I’m not sure if I’m even allowed to accept this.”

Peter wasn’t sure, either—Neal wasn’t supposed to be paid by anyone else while he was working for the Bureau, but the work he supposedly did for June was okay, since it was on an in-kind basis. He supposed since they were calling it a per diem, it would fall under the same exception. “I think it’s okay,” he decided. “If the Bureau finds out about it and has a problem, we’ll deal with it then.”

Neal shrugged, said, “Okay,” and put the money in his wallet. 

Seeing the money as Neal put it away, Peter suspected that “the Department’s paying” meant something like that he had passed a hat—per diems were not, in Peter’s experience, generally paid in cash at all, much less in an assortment of wrinkled small bills. But Neal either didn’t notice or didn’t care; either way, Peter wasn’t going to bring it up.

“How are you feeling?” Sandburg asked him.

“Good.” Neal smiled brightly. “Really good. I want to thank you—you helped a lot yesterday, not just, you know, in the room, but the advice for Peter, too. I think if you can fill him in on what you did yesterday, that’s going to make a big difference.” He turned to Peter. “The biggest thing was that he just talked to me about adjusting my dials. I don’t know why that helped—he wasn’t saying anything I didn’t already know—but it helped, a lot. You can do that, right?”

“Sure,” Peter said. “Definitely. I don’t know why it would help either, but it seems easy enough.”

“It is easy,” Sandburg said. “And it helps because—well, first for the same reasons guided meditation techniques help; for anybody, it’s easier if you can just concentrate on what you’re doing and not on what the next step is. And it works especially well for Sentinels because they respond neurochemically to Guide voices. It’s one of the most basic things Guides do.”

And Peter hadn’t been doing any of it. 

“Okay,” Neal said, looking at Peter and then back at Sandburg. “See? We’re learning already. The talking thing and the touching thing are probably enough, really, but if they have some more tips for us, we’ll be golden.”

“Eh.” Sandburg held up his hand. “You’re right that we want to help, and I’m glad you asked, but this--” His sweeping gesture indicated Peter, Neal, and the whole mess between them, “—has been handled in an ad-hoc way long enough. I’m not going to enable that by wading in with a lot of half-assed advice.” Neal started to apologize, but Sandburg waved him off. “Not a problem. I got you two an appointment at Rainier this afternoon.”

“Rainier?” Neal asked.

“The local college,” Peter said. “They have a Guide training program, I think.”

Sandburg winced. “They have the best Guide education program in the country. Don’t call it ‘training,’ please; that word means something else to people who know anything at all about Guide history.”

Right; Peter knew from _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_ that until fairly recently, Guide “training” had meant something more like dog training than professional training. 

“They have an academic department in Guide Studies, but the Sentinel-Guide clinic is world-renowned,” Sandburg said. “They have instructors for both Sentinels and Guides, counseling, Sen-Med specialists, everything—a real holistic approach. Today, they’re just going to meet with you and start figuring out what services you need, and come up with some kind of a long-term plan.”

Ellison added, “It’s a pretty big deal. People don’t usually get appointments on a day’s notice, but Sandburg knows everybody over there, and he called in a lot of favors.”

“Not that many favors,” Sandburg said. “But I do know everybody. My academic work is in Anthropology/Guide Studies, and we went to the Clinic for years after I started working with Jim.”

“ _Years_?” Neal said. “You know we’re only here for a week, right?”

“We went to the clinic every day for a couple of months,” Sandburg said. “After that it was weekly appointments, then monthly. I’m not sure what they’ll come up with for you—depending on what the issues are, they might be able to refer you to somebody in New York. Whatever the plan is, they’ll liaise with the FBI about it—if your immediate supervisor doesn’t know that the Rainier Sentinel-Guide Clinic doesn’t play around, they’ll go up the chain until they find somebody who does. You’re _done_ slipping through the cracks in the system. If their professional opinion is that you need to stay here receiving services for a while, the FBI will not only agree to it, they’ll be thanking them for it.”

“Peter’s married,” Neal pointed out. “It’s not like he can just drop everything and deal with this full-time.”

“I hope that’s not necessary,” Peter said, “but if it is, El and I will work it out.”

Sandburg said, “That’s not a unique issue. In about seventeen percent of Sentinel-Guide pairs, at least one of them has a spouse or long-term partner other than their working partner.”

“That many?” Peter was surprised.

“Yes. I know the popular perception is that Sentinels and Guides are these tight dyads that don’t need anybody else, but really, only about two-thirds of pairs that consider their partnership permanent are also romantic or sexual partners; most of the rest either have or would like to have a romantic relationship with someone else. And about half of pairs are in temporary working partnerships—yours would be in that category, statistically. Some of those are married or in long-term relationships with other people, some aren’t but are looking for one, some are looking for a Sentinel or Guide who will be both a working and romantic partner, some are open to either, and some aren’t looking for anything. Just like everybody else, really.” Sandburg shrugged. “It’s a little more complicated for us, but human relationships are messy for everyone. There might be some parts of your situation that the people at the clinic haven’t seen before, but Burke being married isn’t one of them.”

“That’s good to know,” Peter said.

“So that’s also not something that the two of you—or the three of you—need to work out on your own,” Sandburg added. “The Clinic has people who focus just on helping people in triadic or quadratic relationships balance things out. They’ll probably want to talk to your wife,” he added. “On the phone, at least.”

“That’s not a problem, is it?” Neal asked him.

Peter shook his head. “I’m sure she won’t mind. Elizabeth likes Neal,” he added to the other two.

“That helps a lot,” Sandburg said. 

“She does?” Neal asked.

“Yes,” Peter said. 

Neal grinned. “People like me,” he said. 

“I like you, too,” he added, wondering if he’d ever said that. Neal had mentioned several times, including last night, that he asked Peter to be his Guide because he liked him. Peter couldn’t say the same—he agreed to be Neal’s Guide because he didn’t have a lot of choice—but he did like him.

Neal grinned some more. “I like you too, Peter.”

#

After spending a little more time in the lab—Neal stuck to the magnifying glass this time—they returned to the warehouse to open more crates. Even putting yesterday’s revelations aside, this was really a fun assignment. It was like Christmas morning, a different present inside every box.

Okay, so he didn’t get to keep any of them, but opening was always the best part, anyway. Getting to do something he was really good at was much better than sitting in the surveillance van or squinting over spreadsheets. 

At mid-day, they went to lunch with Blair and Ellison—Neal suspected that Blair wanted to make sure he was being allowed to eat—and learned a little more about their story. As it turned out, Ellison _hadn’t_ been using his senses since before Neal was born, only for about fifteen years. He’d been latent for most of the time until then, apart from something Ellison referred to as, “That time in Peru,” without elaboration. He _had_ been in the military, but not as a Sentinel, and had already been working as a cop when his senses emerged. He had tried to hide them—Ellison claimed he didn’t know why; Sandburg said something about “fear-based responses”—until he met Blair while investigating the warehouse explosion he’d mentioned the day before. 

Sandburg, for his part, had been what he called “openly UnRegistered.” There was a box on the form, apparently, that you could check to indicate that you were a Sentinel or Guide and chose not to Register. If you checked that box, instead of lying like Peter had, you couldn’t be compelled to be tested, or called into service if the Sentinel-Guide draft was reinstated, but you were ineligible for a lot of jobs, for government financial aid, and a number of other things. (Peter gloomily mentioned, when Blair explained this, that his Harvard scholarship had been fraudulent for that reason.) Rainier University had, according to Blair, been a center of the Guide civil rights movement in the sixties, and offered privately-funded scholarships for UnRegistered Guides. Blair had gone to college and graduate school on one of those. Since he’d never lied, switching over to Registered status when he started working with Ellison had been straightforward. 

On paper, at least. From some of the things he said, Neal gathered that at that time, Blair’s distrust of the government had rivaled that of Neal’s old friend Mozzie. “There was wailing and gnashing of teeth,” Blair said. “Accusations of selling out, the whole thing. My own mother accused me of becoming a jackbooted thug.” He shrugged. “Back then, the plan was that I was going to study Sentinels, not have one of my own—but when I met Jim, that changed. I became a full-time police Guide and a part-time academic, and that’s pretty much how it’s been for the last fifteen years or so.”

“Could you have done it the other way around?” Peter wondered. “Been a part-time Guide and full-time academic?”

“Me?” Blair said. “No. But if what you’re really asking is if you can be a good Guide and still be everything else that you are…?”

“I was wondering,” Peter admitted. 

“There’s some kind of balance to be found,” Blair told him. “I’m not sure exactly what it’ll look like, but the idea that Guides don’t have lives other than their Sentinels went out with compulsory service. Is this how you usually work? I mean, are you two usually together while you’re investigating?”

“Pretty much,” Peter said. “Neal usually goes with me when I’m out in the field, and if Neal’s in the field, I’m always with him. In the office, we’re not joined at the hip, but I’m nearby. And--” he looked over at Neal. “You can always come to my office if you need to—you know that, right?”

“Yep,” Neal said. It was possible he should have been taking advantage of that option a little more often that he did, but he’d never thought Peter would kick him out if he came asking.

Peter nodded. “Good. There are a few meetings Neal can’t come to, upper-level stuff, but that really only amounts to a couple of hours a week.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Neal added, “it’s probably not even that I need more time. Usually, when I have a problem, you’re there, you’re just not….”

“Doing anything?” Peter suggested.

“Yeah. Once you get some education, you’ll be able to help more in less time.”

“I don’t know about that,” Blair said. “I’m getting into the half-assed advice I said I wasn’t going to do, but I get the impression Peter’s not giving you much attention. There’s more to being a Guide than being in the same room as a Sentinel.”

“I’m getting that,” Peter said. “You’re going to get what you need, Neal. More time, more attention, whatever you need.”

Neal decided not to point out that Peter was just saying that because he felt guilty. He probably believed it was true, _now_. But if Neal started acting like he thought it was true that he could monopolize Peter’s attention, Peter would end up hating him again. Instead he just said, “Okay.”

After lunch, they returned to the warehouse for another hour, until it was time for Neal and Peter’s appointment at Rainier. Neal wondered if Blair and Ellison were going to tag along, but after giving Peter a very explicit set of directions, including a hand-drawn map, they set out on their own. 

From the word “clinic,” Neal had formed a mental picture of something low-budget and medical, possibly involving linoleum, wailing children, and the pervasive smell of antiseptic, but the Rainier Sentinel-Guide Clinic proved to be a structure designed to resemble a large house, with bamboo floors and lots of clean lines. The air inside was…fresh. Not completely inert like a clean room—and the place didn’t have that oddly-muffled sound, either—but very subtle and pleasant. 

He supposed that made sense, if this was someplace Sentinels came when they weren’t well. 

Almost the first thing the clinic staff did when they arrived was separate them. Neal was escorted into an office by a Guide named Tim Miller, while Peter was taken in the other direction by his Sentinel partner. Neal wondered what Blair had told them about him and Peter, and if he was about to be asked to point to where Peter had hurt him on an anatomically correct doll. 

Instead, Tim invited him to sit down on a sofa and chatted about his background for a while. He was a psychologist, as well as a Guide. He was in a committed partnership with Michelle, the Sentinel Peter was talking to, but they were unbonded because being able to link with other Sentinels and Guides was necessary for their jobs. “Sentinels sometimes feel uncomfortable linking with another Sentinel’s Guide, but it’s something we do all the time in our work—if we weren’t comfortable with it, we’d do research or administration instead of hands-on counseling. It’s—well, Michelle sometimes tells Sentinels she doesn’t mind me linking with other Sentinels any more than a gynecologist’s wife minds him seeing other women naked.”

Neal wouldn’t have thought of it as something that _could_ be a problem, if Tim hadn’t brought it up, but just said, “Okay.”

“If you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to try a link now.”

Neal agreed and held out his hand. Tim put his wrist in his hand—opposite of the way he and Peter did it—and Neal started concentrating on making the link. 

He didn’t have to. Almost as soon as he “reached” out, Tim made contact and they were linked. “That was easy,” Neal said. 

“It’s usually not?” Tim asked. 

“No. Peter’s kind of…I don’t know. I have to try to find a way in.” 

Neal suspected that if he’d said something like that to Blair, it would have provoked another one of those outraged squawks, but Tim just said, “That’s something we can work on.” 

He had Neal do a few very simple sensory tests, similar to what Ketner had tried on their first lesson. Neal knew what he was doing now, and got through them easily. After Neal finished reading about the quick brown fox in Braille, Tim asked him where all of his dials were, and, when Neal said they were all at five, told him, “You can release the link whenever you’re ready.”

Neal let go of his wrist, holding himself still for a moment as he checked that his senses were still normal. 

“Are you all right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes after Peter breaks a link, things get a little weird for a minute or two.” Or a lot longer than a minute, if he’d been overworking himself like he had yesterday. “But it’s fine now.”

“Good.”

They talked for a while about what usually happened when Neal used his senses. Based on Blair’s antics yesterday, Neal was prepared for Tim to freak out and start hurling verbal abuse in Peter’s direction, but he was reassuringly matter of fact, saying things like, “I see,” and “that sounds a bit more severe than average.” 

Next, Tim went on to ask Neal some questions about where he lived, how he slept, what he ate. Neal didn’t have problems with any of those things—except eating after he’d had a sensory episode—but he supposed Tim couldn’t be sure of that unless he asked about everything. Neal talked about his apartment, about the trials of eating on two hundred dollars a month in New York, about June, Cyndi, and Bugsy the pug.

“Is there anyone else in the household?”

“A housekeeper, Fern, but her apartment’s over the garage—detached garage. She’s nice, too. She doesn’t wait on me,” he added, “or clean my apartment or anything, just June and Cyndi’s part of the house. Oh, and my friend Mozzie doesn’t live there, but he’s over a lot. Sometimes he spends the night.”

“Ah. Boyfriend?”

“Nooooooo,” Neal said. “Friend. Regular friend. He just…his living situation is a little weird.” He decided not to try to explain about Moz’s storage unit and his network of safe houses, or how he didn’t like to sleep under the same roof two nights in a row. “He usually brings over a bottle or two of wine, which is nice because of the money thing, and if he wants to stay, he fits on the couch. He’s short.” 

Tim smiled. “Okay. So that’s pretty much your social support network right now?”

“I guess.”

“Is there anyone else significant in your life now? Other than Peter and the rest of the people at work?”

“Right now? No.” There was Kate, and some other friends he’d lost touch with, but nobody he could get in touch with even if he wanted to. “But Moz and June are great—really supportive friends—and Cyndi and Fern are around if I don’t feel like being alone.”

“All right, then. So everything’s pretty much fine medically, and with your home and social lives, apart from the financial issues. The next topic is work.”

Neal nodded and grinned. “Yeah, work is a little more complicated. How much background did you get on that?”

“I’ve seen your criminal record and your work-release contract with the FBI. The FBI pursued you for years, and now you work with the same people that put you in prison. Is that stressful? Working for the enemy?”

“They’re not the enemy,” Neal said. “More like the…opposing team. They play by the rules. The enemy’s…other criminals. Bad criminals. The Mob, Russian Mob, some of the scarier independents. You cross them, they’ll kill you, hurt the people you care about. All the Feds’ll do is arrest you. I never thought they were bad people.” He grinned. “Of course, I don’t think _I’m_ a bad person, either.”

“Do your colleagues at the FBI think you’re a bad person?”

“Some of them.”

“Does Peter?”

“I never asked.” 

“What do you think he’d say if you did?”

“I think…he’d say that we live in a society that has laws, and I broke them, so I have to live with the consequences.” Neal could hear him saying it; he could practically do that lecture in his sleep.

“That’s not an answer,” Tim noted.

“No, it’s not. I think if I asked, he’d dodge the question. If you really pressed him on it, he’d say I made bad choices, did bad things. I don’t think he’d come right out and say I was a bad person, but he wouldn’t say I’m a good one, either.” And that was okay. In Neal’s world, he was a good person: he didn’t hurt people, stood by his friends, and didn’t double-cross anyone he was doing a job with. Peter’s world had different standards. 

“Does that bother you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Well, the blackmail thing bothers me a little bit. Do you know about that?”

“No.”

Neal explained how when he proposed the work release arrangement, Peter had thought it was a blackmail attempt. “I hope that now that he knows me better, he understands I wouldn’t do that. I’m not really sure. But that’s…one of our problems. After he went to the FBI and told them everything, they basically said he could keep his job if he did this, became my Guide. I know, they’re not actually allowed to do that, force him to work as a Guide. I’m sure they said it in some way that if he tried to drag it into the open, they’d say that wasn’t what they meant. It would be worse for me than for him if he refused to do it, but he’s kind of boxed in, too.” 

“I can see how that’s a problem. You said one of your problems—what are the others?”

“Until yesterday, I thought that was the biggest one—Peter doesn’t want to be my Guide. Or anybody’s Guide, really. But we learned yesterday that most of my…at least practical problems, the ones where I’m huddled in a corner trying not to throw up, have more to do with him not knowing _how_ to be a Guide. And that’s fixable. He’s willing to learn—this isn’t a job he wanted, but he’s not going to intentionally do it badly; he’s not like that.”

“Like what?”

Neal shrugged. “Lazy? Vindictive? I don’t know. He cares about me, even likes me—he said so—but even if he didn’t, he’d do the job. I don’t have any doubts about that.”

“Good,” Tim said. “So those are the two biggest problems?” Neal nodded. “Any others?”

“Well, he’s married,” Neal said. “Blair says that’s manageable. But I…this can’t screw up his marriage.”

“How do you mean?”

“He works a lot. Even before this—me. That’s hard on a relationship. Right now, he’s saying he’ll do whatever it takes to be a better Guide, but if that means he’s not home as much, he’s not doing what he needs to do with his wife…that’s going to end badly.”

“Badly for who?”

“Everybody. She says it’s him or me, he sends me back to prison and loses his job; I’m miserable, they’re unhappy and poor. She packs her bags and leaves; he’s unhappy and resents me. She’s probably unhappy too, in that scenario. They stay married and fight all the time; they’re still both unhappy and Peter still resents me. If I had to pick, I’d go with one of the ones where I’m not in prison and have a Guide that hates me, but I’m not crazy about any of the options.”

“Are those the only options?”

“No—the good option is that we don’t let him pull that ‘whatever it takes’ shit, and make sure whatever we work out doesn’t interfere with his marriage. If that means it’s not absolutely ideal from my end, that’s fine. I’m already miles above what I’m legally entitled to—you know that if you read the case law—and I’m sure we can do even better with some minor adjustments.”

“I see,” Tim said.

“I’ve been working with him for a few months now, and he chased me for four years. I know how he gets—when he’s close to a big break in an important case, he forgets everything else—doesn’t go home, doesn’t call, forgets their anniversary, the whole sitcom bad husband routine. And then either he closes the case or the lead dries up, and he goes back to being a good husband again. I guess Elizabeth’s used to that. But he’s going to want to handle this the same way; I know he is. Thing is, that has to work out for three and a half years. That’s not forever, but it’s not short-term, either.”

“You seem to have given Peter’s marriage a lot of thought.”

Neal shrugged. “If you’re running a long con—and I’m very good at running long cons—you have to be able to see problems before they happen. This isn’t a con, but the principle’s the same.” Peter’s marriage—Peter’s feelings in general—was an aspect he hadn’t thought through when he first came up with the anklet plan. He wasn’t going to keep making that mistake. “He feels much guiltier about this than he should—Sandburg was pretty rough on him yesterday. He needs to get over that, and then we’ll be able to figure out something that’ll work for the rest of my sentence.” He nodded firmly. 

After asking a few more questions to find out if there were any more problems Neal hadn’t thought of, Tim said, “All right. The next thing you’re scheduled for is a physical—I don’t think there are any medical problems involved in all this, but we like to be thorough. Is that okay?”

Neal nodded. “Sure. I just had one, for the Bureau, but I don’t mind.”

“Good. While you’re doing that, Michelle and I will compare notes, and then all four of us will sit down together. Is there anything we’ve talked about here that you want to stay just between us?”

Neal thought it over. “Mozzie. Peter knows he exists, but I don’t think he knows quite how much time he’s spending over at my place. I’m not really supposed to be associating with known felons outside work.”

Tim nodded. “Okay. I don’t think that was likely to come up anyway, but I’ll make sure I don’t mention it. Anything else?” He reviewed some of the main points of their conversation, and Neal agreed that it was all okay to tell Peter about. He wasn’t thrilled about dragging the question of whether or not Peter thought he was a bad person into the open, but he did want to find out where they stood on the blackmail issue, so he supposed Tim could mention it if he had to. 

Peter’s session had finished, too, so Neal got to have him with him for his physical. Tim directed them to the medical office, in another part of the building, and they set off. “How’d it go?” Neal asked as they walked.

“Fine. Yours?”

“Fine.”

“The guy they had you talking to, he was good?”

Neal nodded. “He didn’t get as excited about it as Blair.”

“Hm.”

The physical was pretty normal, except that the doctor spent a lot of time explaining what he was doing and why, including very basic things like, “I’m going to use this stethoscope to listen to your heart and lungs.” Neal wondered if they thought he’d never been to a doctor before, or if maybe they assumed he’d been raped in prison and would be jumpy about having a strange man touch him. He decided not to ask. He did finally protest, though, when the doctor said he needed to draw some blood for lab tests, and suggested that Neal might want to link with Peter for it. 

“Why?” Neal asked as he rolled up his sleeve, thinking maybe there was some biochemical aspect to linking that would show up on the tests.

“Pain management,” the doctor said.

“ _Seriously_? I think I can handle a blood draw without having my hand held.”

“It’s not a problem, Neal,” Peter said.

Neal just gave him a look of pure exasperation, and the doctor eventually drew the blood—which hurt, a little bit, for like a second. 

The physical ended with another set of sensory tests. This time, the Braille was some lines from “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” instead of the quick brown fox, which made a nice change. The doctor expressed the usual surprise that Neal could read Braille. “I have this friend who’s really into codes,” he explained, which was true, if a little misleading. The Braille lessons had actually been part of Mozzie’s Zen approach to safecracking.

After that, they met up with Tim and Michelle in a conference room between their two offices. At least, the sign next to the door said conference room; it was furnished more like a coffee house, with overstuffed couches in a conversation circle, and a sideboard with coffee, water, and juices. There was, however, a flip chart on an easel, currently closed. Neal wondered what that was about. Was this presentation going to have visual aids?

“How are you guys doing?” Michelle asked as they took seats. 

Peter looked over at Neal. “Good,” Neal said. Being asked for an update on his personal well-being every ten minutes was starting to get old. “How about you?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said. 

“The intake process can be a little overwhelming,” Tim said, “but this is the last part of what we’re going to do today.” 

“We usually start by talking about strengths, and really, there are a lot to talk about,” Michelle continued. “I’m not sure exactly what Dr. Sandburg said to you, but….”

“We were expecting worse, to be honest,” Tim finished. “I understand yesterday afternoon was pretty rough, but Neal’s clearly bounced back pretty well, and that’s a good sign.”

Neal gave Peter a look. _See_?

“Neal’s also in generally good health, which is another good sign,” Michelle said. “There are some medical problems that can exacerbate sensory distress, which we always like to rule out, but more often, Sentinels in persistent sensory distress will start to develop medical problems as a result of stress, not being able to eat or sleep well, things like that. Based on both the medical findings and what the two of you have described, this is more like _intermittent_ sensory distress, and while the individual episodes have been quite severe, overall functioning between episodes is good.”

“That also explains why your individual evaluations of the severity of the problem are…different,” Tim added. “Excuse me if I’m putting words in your mouths, but Neal’s perspective seems to be that the situation is unpleasant but generally bearable—is that about right?”

“Yes,” Neal said. “Very well stated.”

“While Peter’s is that this is a serious problem that should not have gone unaddressed for as long as it has.”

“Well stated,” Peter echoed.

“You’re both right,” Tim said. “The last few months have been rougher on Neal than they should have been, but he’s coped with them very well, and he’s not shattered by the experience. At the same time, the sensory issues, which we think stem from some basic errors in practice, are very unlikely to have gotten better on their own. If we were having this conversation three and a half years from now, and these errors had still not been addressed, we’d almost certainly be seeing a different picture medically, and in terms of sensory function, and probably psychologically as well. So it’s a very good thing that you’re here now, and we can count that as a strength too, that we’re addressing these things before they’ve reached catastrophic levels. Is everyone comfortable with that assessment?”

“I guess,” Neal said. It sounded like they were leaning more toward his “perspective” than Peter’s, anyway, which was good, since his was the right one. 

“But it’s still pretty late,” Peter said. “I mean, these ‘basic errors’ are things I should have known about before I even picked him up from the prison.”

“Yes,” Michelle said. “There are some structural issues that played into that, and those are likely going to be high on this institution’s advocacy agenda in the near future. In terms of the two of you getting your partnership on track, though, those issues are…tangential.”

In other words, Neal supposed, Peter should pull his head out of his ass and stop wallowing in guilt, which wasn’t going to help either of them.

“The next major strength,” Tim said, “is that Neal’s sensory issues are not particularly exotic or complicated, with one possible exception. There are some Sentinels who have a great deal of trouble gaining control over their senses, regardless of the type or quality of instruction and Guidance they receive. There are no signs that Neal is one of them. Some of the visual distortions you’ve described sound…atypical,” he added, looking right at Neal.

“Which ones?” Neal asked. 

“That’s something we’re going to have a Sen-med ophthalmologist look into further. I’m not certain, and Dr. Michaels isn’t certain either, if what you described just sounds unusual because of the specific metaphors you used, or if you’re actually seeing something other Sentinels don’t. The changes in the apparent size of objects and the phenomenon you describe as, ‘the Pointillism one’ are fairly standard. The ‘Cubist one’ and the ‘Dali-esque one,’ we’re not sure about.”

“Dali’s the melting clocks, right?” Michelle asked.

Neal winced. “Yes, that was his greatest hit. In most of his paintings, objects are stretched, bent, or distorted in ways that do not occur in nature.”

“I’ve never seen anything I would describe that way,” Michelle said. “But it could be a known phenomenon that’s described some other way in the literature. And Cubism—I had to look that up, and the definition I found said, ‘objects are broken up, analyzed, and reassembled in an abstracted form…depicts the subject from a multitude of viewpoints.’ Is that what you were referring to?”

“Yes.” What else would he be referring to?

“I’ve also never had that,” Michelle said. “But again, there’s a lot of variation from one Sentinel to another, and it could be it’s not that unusual. We’ll find out. The last major strength to discuss is that when identifying the central problems in your partnership, you both expressed a great deal of concern for the other’s needs and feelings. Those areas are also a site of substantial miscommunication, which we’ll get to when we start talking about weaknesses, but you’re both thinking about each other, and that’s good.”

Neither of them was a self-absorbed sociopath, check. 

“Now,” Tim said, getting up and moving toward the flip chart, “before we start talking about the areas for improvement, I’d like you both to take a look at what you’ve each identified as the most significant problems in the partnership.” 

Neal knew he wasn’t going to like that flip chart. 

His side was all right. It listed, “1. Peter doesn’t want to be a Guide (blackmail thing); 2. Peter doesn’t know how to be a Guide; 3. Peter ‘way too guilty’ (marriage balance concerns); 4. Finances (rights of incarcerated Sentinels?).”

He hadn’t realized that “finances” was going to make the list of major problems, but he supposed he had talked about it a lot. 

Peter’s list, on the other hand, was…much longer. Neal’s first thought on seeing it was, Holy shit, this is worse than I thought. When he started reading, though, he realized that most of the things on it he did know about. The first item was, “Neal thinks I hate him and he ruined my life.” They’d dealt with that, hadn’t they? 

About half the rest of the items started with “Neal thinks.” Apparently, he thought that Peter didn’t care how much he suffered; that Peter didn’t care if he went back to prison; that Peter didn’t care about any of his problems, really; and that their Sentinel-Guide relationship was essentially fraudulent. Additionally, he didn’t think that he deserved a decent Guide; that he had any rights worth mentioning; that he could ask Peter for help; or that he was a good Sentinel.

Most of the rest, Neal pretty much agreed with. Peter not having any training in being a Guide was on there—that was one of his, too. Peter had also noted that maybe Neal’s Sentinel training wasn’t as good as it should be, either, which Neal hadn’t thought of, but maybe it was. Ketner had clearly overlooked a lot; it was entirely possible he wasn’t particularly good at the things he was doing. “Bureau expects too much of Neal”—well, he wasn’t sure exactly what Peter meant by that, but he did feel some pressure to learn quickly so he could start earning his keep. Another five or six items covered the issue of Peter’s lack of training and experience as a Guide, in terms ranging from, “Peter worst Guide in universe” to “Peter not confident in skills as a Guide.” Neal supposed they indicated shades of meaning that were important to either Peter or Michelle, but as far as he was concerned, they were really all the same thing. 

“Okay,” Neal said slowly. 

“What’s this about my marriage?” Peter asked. “There’s nothing wrong with my marriage.”

“Not now there isn’t,” Neal said.

“Neal’s concerned that being his Guide will put strain on your marriage,” Tim explained. 

“That’s not something you need to worry about,” Peter said. “El and I will work that out.”

Tim and Michelle exchanged significant looks. Michelle apparently won—or lost; Neal wasn’t sure. She was the one that took up the issue, anyway. “It’s normal and appropriate for a Sentinel to be concerned about his Guide’s general well-being, and your marriage is part of that. I can understand why, under the circumstances, that concern may seem invasive or unseemly, but it’s pretty much part of the Sentinel package. The two of you will have some decisions to make about appropriate interpersonal boundaries, but Sentinels are generally protective of their Guides, and if the Guide has a family, that extends to them as well. If that’s unacceptable to you, then that’s a very significant issue that will have to be resolved one way or another.”

Peter listened to the speech with a slightly confused look on his face. “Oh. That’s…not what I meant. Neal’s met Elizabeth; they get along. It’s not like that.”

“Not like what?” Michelle asked. 

Peter glanced over at Neal. “Do I have to say it?”

“Yes,” said Tim.

“Not like ‘I don’t want the convict talking about my wife.’ You didn’t think I was saying that, did you?”

Neal shook his head.

“No, I just meant, Neal’s got enough problems of his own to worry about.”

“Okay,” Tim said. “That’s something we can get into in more depth later. In general, the kind of issues that arise with balancing a marriage with a Sentinel-Guide partnership are usually best resolved if everybody involved is part of the same conversation, and that is something we’re going to pick up again later, but I don’t think it’s the most pressing issue. The most pressing issue, or one of the big two, anyway, is communication. What just happened here is that a point of conflict came up, and we started discussing it without making sure that everyone was looking at the same problem. From looking at these lists--” Tim pointed to the flip chart “—I’m getting the impression that happens a lot. You’re both operating under a lot of assumptions about what the other one feels or thinks is a problem, and you’re close enough that you probably think you’re talking about the same things, but when Michelle and I put our heads together, it became pretty clear that you aren’t.”

Neal wasn’t sure that was the most pressing issue—Peter not wanting to be his Guide in the first place was still bigger—but he could see it. Peter’s long list of Things Neal Thinks was testimony to that. “So what do we do?”

“Counseling,” Tim said promptly. “You’re going to work on discussing these issues--” chart again “—in the same room, and you’re also going to learn some strategies for dealing with new problems as they come up. The specific issues here are a little unusual, but it’s a very common problem, especially in—forgive the essentialism—male/male pairs. You don’t want to talk about things at all, or if you do you want to skip straight to resolving the issue, so you never really understand each other.”

“Funny,” Peter said. “My marriage counselor said the same thing.”

“Good, then you already have some practice,” Tim said.

“I’m not objecting,” Peter said, “but how is that going to help Neal with his senses?”

“It’s going to help because he’ll have a better relationship with his Guide,” Michelle said. “And that’s very important. There needs to be a certain level of trust and intimacy, even in a purely working relationship.”

Peter glanced over at him. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay,” Tim said. “The other major issue is, of course, Peter’s Guide skills.”

“Or lack thereof,” Peter added.

“Yes. We already have some pretty good ideas of what you’re doing wrong, and we think Neal’s control over his senses is going to improve dramatically once a few basic things are addressed. That said, there’s a lot more to learn after those few basic things, so the other component of the treatment plan is education. That’ll mostly be sensory lab exercises—like you’ve been doing in the lessons with, ah, Mr. Ketner, but now you’ll both be working, with Peter learning what he should be doing while Neal’s doing sensory work. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Neal said. 

“I don’t want to push Neal as hard as we’ve been doing in the lessons with Ketner,” Peter said. 

“The instructors will work with both of you on a pace that you’re both comfortable with,” Michelle said. “I think they’re likely to want to start over at the beginning, with linking and dials, so a lot of it will be review for Neal.”

“Good,” Peter said.

Tim flipped over the chart to another page, this one headed, ‘Treatment plan.’ He summarized, “The two priorities are counseling and education. We’re also going to have an ophthalmologist look into the visual distortions, and at some point do some work on work-life balance issues, which we’ll want to get Elizabeth involved in as well.” 

He looked at Peter, who nodded. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“Finally.” He tapped the last bullet point on the list. “You both indicated that there are some legal irregularities in your situation, but that addressing them would probably be counterproductive. You’re, unfortunately, probably right, but our legal team is already researching the rights of incarcerated Sentinels, so you might as well meet with them and talk about what they find out. The rights of UnRegistered Guides has been a priority issue for us for a while, so they can easily address that, too. Meeting with them doesn’t mean you have to sue anybody or take any legal action; you can just find out about your rights and options, and if you still believe the best option is to do nothing on that front, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “I’m kind of hoping Neal’s wrong about the rights of incarcerated Sentinels.”

“I’m not.” Hoping, he meant. Neal agreed that it would be nice if he was wrong, but he wasn't wrong.

“Well, let’s have a lawyer of the non-jailhouse variety look into it, okay?” Peter said.

“As long as I’m not responsible for their billable hours,” Neal said. “Speaking of, all this stuff you want us to do, who’s going to pay for it, and how long is it going to take?”

“Good questions,” Tim said. “What we’d like to suggest is that you plan on spending half-days here for a month.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Neal had expected that Michelle and Tim would want to see them a few more times, but surely they could do that during the time they were scheduled to be out here, and pick up with someone else back in New York.

“I think that’s doable,” Peter said. “The Bureau—well, Sandburg said you could take care of the Bureau?”

“Yes,” Michelle said. “That’s not likely to be a problem. And if you’re doing half-days here, you’ll have half-days to keep working on the matter they sent you out here for. A lot of it doesn’t involve sensory work, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “And we can wait to do the authentification work later, or you can do them without using your senses,” he added to Neal. 

“Well, yeah.” He hadn’t been too concerned about what the Bureau might have to say about their one-week assignment to Cascade stretching to a month. “But you can’t just abandon your life for a month.”

“I abandoned my life for a month to trail you across Eastern Europe,” Peter said. “And for three weeks for the New Orleans fiasco. And Milan, and Copenhagen.”

“Don’t forget Bordeaux,” Neal added.

“That was you in Bordeaux?”

“No.” Peter hadn’t known that was him? That was one of his best jobs. 

Peter shook his head. “Anyway, a month is fine. If there’s some time Elizabeth’s not busy, she can come out; it’ll be like a vacation.”

Some vacation. Neal wondered if Peter would agree to separate rooms then. 

“As for payment,” Michelle continued, “we expect to be able to bill the FBI for everything except the legal consultation, which we can handle under another budget line. If they aren’t interested in paying, we’ll cover your services some other way. As it happens, issues affecting incarcerated and formerly incarcerated Sentinels are about to become an institutional priority. As of, oh, yesterday,” she added with a smile. “We’ll be getting grants.” 

Peter and Neal exchanged a look. “Sandburg has that much pull around here? I didn’t think he was that big of a deal.”

“In his own right, he’s only a moderately-sized deal,” Tim said. “He’s very highly respected in both academic and working Guide circles. But—well, does the name ‘Naomi Sandburg’ mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing,” Neal said. “A relative?” Maybe they had a building named after her or something—although why, in that case, Blair would have gone to college on a scholarship, he wasn’t sure.

“She was—well, still is—a prominent figure in the second wave of the Guide civil rights movement, which Rainier was significantly involved in,” Tim explained. “She’s a very big deal, and as a result, ‘Sandburg’ is a name to conjure with around here.”

“And if that weren’t enough,” Michelle added, “he and his Sentinel make up half the board of directors of the Ellison Foundation—that, you probably haven’t heard of, but it’s a major donor of the University, this Clinic, and half the rest of Cascade.”

“Oh,” Neal said. “Ellison’s that Sentinel?” He’d have been way more scared of him if he’d known that.

“What Sentinel?” Peter asked suspiciously.

“The one that nobody ever robs the museum here because of,” Neal explained. “They have this set of ceremonial regalia from the Temple of the Sentinels in Peru—solid gold, probably worth over a million dollars melted down.” 

“Melted down?” Now Tim sounded outraged. 

“And God only knows how much to the right collector,” Neal added. “Nobody would melt it down. And the security on it is a joke—a child could walk away with it. A blind child in a wheelchair could roll away with it. Only nobody has, and the rumor is that it’s because of a curse.”

“A curse,” Peter said skeptically, then backpedaled once he’d thought through the implications. “Never mind; you keep on believing in that curse.”

“A curse where if you even think about stealing it, you get chased off by wild animals nobody else can see,” Neal added. “Now, Kate always thought that, if the curse exists, we’re probably the only museum-theft team in the world that could get past it. Being a Sentinel and a Guide ourselves, the artifacts probably wouldn’t mind if we took them. But we did a little research into it, and found out that Cascade has a Sentinel on the police force, who would almost certainly be the one assigned to investigate such a theft. And his family’s foundation is a major contributor to the museum and underwrote the expedition that found the artifacts, back in the nineties. And his Guide was part of the expedition. At that point I realized that if I stole the stuff, I would wish for a curse, because he’d probably hunt me down and kill me.”

“Good choice,” Peter said. 

“Anyway,” Neal said, returning to the point, “a month is too long for us to stay here.”

“How long do you think all of these things ought to take?” Tim gestured toward the flip chart.

“Less than that.”

“Hm,” Tim said.

“I’m sure you can come up with enough to do to fill that much time, but it’s not necessary. We don’t need that much help,” Neal clarified. Like having his eyes examined—who cared if his visual distortions were normal or not? What difference would it make if they weren’t?

“I think we need as much help as we can get,” Peter said. 

“Yeah, well.” He stopped short of pointing out that Peter didn’t really know anything about it; the point was for Peter to feel less guilty, not more. 

“Look,” Peter said. “I know you’re—” He stopped and looked at the flip chart. “Is this about thinking a month is too long for me to be away from home, or is there some other problem I’m not seeing?”

“No, that’s pretty much it,” Neal said. He supposed he could make some other objection, like that June might rent out his apartment to someone else if he wasn’t using it, but if Peter bought it, which was unlikely, Tim and Michelle would probably just suggest that they set their legal team on researching Manhattan landlord-tenant law or something. “And it is too long.”

“As Peter has mentioned,” Tim said, “and as you agreed, Peter’s job regularly takes him away from home for fairly long periods. What’s different about this?”

“It just is.” 

“Why?”

“Because it’s not really his job! Putting me in prison is his job. Making sure I’m… _happy_ isn’t.”

“Not making you happy, no,” Tim said. “But making sure that you aren’t in sensory distress, and working toward a healthy, trusting relationship, is. He’s your Guide.”

“He’s not supposed to be my Guide.”

“But I _am_ ,” Peter pointed out. 

“Because you don’t have any choice.”

Michelle held up one hand. “Hold on a second.” She turned to Tim. “Plan B?”

He winced, but nodded. “Yeah, let’s talk about plan B. If this,” he indicated the chart, “isn’t acceptable, or either of you is unwilling to work on these issues, then for you to continue as Sentinel and Guide is not going to work out. And we have several ideas for how we can make that happen.”

Peter started to say, “That’s--”

“Let’s hear ‘em,” Neal interrupted.

“First,” Michelle said, “we understand that Neal has to have an FBI agent supervising his work release, and he has to have a Guide. Is it absolutely necessary that they both be the same person?”

Somehow, Neal hadn’t thought of it that way. “That’s a good question.”

“That’s how the Bureau wants it,” Peter said. 

“There’s certainly a case to be made that their preference for that arrangement stems from a fundamental misunderstanding of how Sentinel-Guide relationships work,” Tim suggested. “If they are under the impression that being Neal’s Guide will somehow make it _easier_ for Peter to exercise his functions as—what do you call it? ‘Handler’—they’re wrong.”

Michelle continued, “And if the objection is financial, that they would prefer not to pay a Guide, there are ways around that problem. We do have a number of semi-retired Guides on file who are willing to take short-term _pro bono_ assignments, and we also have students doing internships. Neither of those would be ideal, but over the longer term, we can work either on funding the position through a grant or on compelling the FBI to meet its moral obligation to fund it themselves.”

“And what about the part where either of us rocking the boat is likely to end up with me back in prison and Peter out of a job?” 

“We rock it for you,” Tim said. “Making it clear to the FBI, the prison system, and whoever else is involved that both of you are cooperating fully, but that the situation isn’t workable. Legal will have to weigh in on whether it would be better to argue that the roles of Guide and ‘handler’ are fundamentally incompatible, or more simply to say that in the Clinic’s professional assessment, Peter isn’t a compatible Guide for Neal.”

“Which would be completely truthful,” Michelle added, “in that a healthy Sentinel-Guide partnership is impossible if either party feels coerced. The FBI is likely to think that we mean something more esoteric—Sentinel-Guide compatibility is a confusing issue to most mundanes.”

“But we’re not responsible for their misunderstanding,” Tim finished. 

“In that scenario,” Michelle added, “Peter could certainly continue as handler, and it might be beneficial for him to have some continuing education so that he could function as a backup Guide if necessary—particularly if we’re sending interns; they’d have to be kept out of any potentially dangerous situations—but that would be a much less demanding role for Peter.”

It should have sounded like a perfect solution. If it worked out exactly the way Michelle said—Neal had his doubts that it would, but if it did—he’d still be working with Peter, which would be nice, but he’d have somebody else for all of the hand-holding that Peter didn’t want to do. Instead, Neal thought that…well, he wasn’t sure what he thought, but he didn’t like it. “Why didn’t you tell us that in the first place?”

Michelle and Tim shared another look. “Because while each of you mentioned strong concerns that the other had been forced into this partnership and saw no acceptable alternative to continuing it, neither of you indicated that you actually feel that way,” Tim said. “So we think that this perceived problem is actually one of your communication issues, and not an issue of fundamental incompatibility. We wanted to focus on logistical issues today—figuring out the treatment plan—and raise this issue later in therapy, when we’re in a position to explore it more fully.”

“But if we’re wrong,” Michelle added, “and either of you does want out of this partnership, then the treatment plan is inappropriate and we should instead focus on finding a way to replace Peter without negative repercussions to either of you. If we can’t make that happen, we can always come back to a scaled-down version of the treatment plan as Plan C. So—what do you want to do? Keeping in mind that we’re talking about your own preferences here, not what you think the other person wants.”

“Can we skip straight to plan C?” Neal asked. That sounded like it was pretty much what he wanted. 

“No,” said Tim. 

“I’m—I need to talk to Elizabeth,” Peter said. “We don’t make major life decisions without each other. But we already talked about it when the Bureau first asked, and we agreed that if I really didn’t want to, or she really didn’t want me to, I’d tell the Bureau I wouldn’t do it, and let the chips fall where they may. We decided to go ahead with it. It wasn’t my first choice, but, apart from being really bad at it, it’s been…I’m fine. I want to see this through.”

“You want to keep being Neal’s Guide?” Michelle asked.

“Yes. Assuming El’s still okay with it. I think she is, but I’ll have to ask her.”

If Elizabeth had any sense, she’d tell Peter he was insane and to take the deal. 

“What about you, Neal?” Tim asked.

“What about me? This was my idea in the first place. Nobody tricked _me_ into it.”

“Nobody tricked me into it, either,” Peter said. “And it was your idea when you didn’t have any options other than prison and catatonia.”

“I had other options.” Neal wasn’t sure what they were, exactly, but he was sure he could have thought of something. “I wouldn’t have asked for this if I didn’t want Peter to be my Guide.”

“And have you changed your mind?” Tim asked.

“No, but Peter--”

“Is able to make his own decisions,” Tim interrupted. 

That wasn’t something Neal could really argue with. Hell, it was his whole _point_ —that Peter shouldn’t be stuck being his Guide when he didn’t want to. If Peter claimed he wanted to, there wasn’t much Neal could do about it—he didn’t know much about being a Sentinel, but he did know there were sound historical reasons that arguing that Peter should be overruled in his own best interests would go over about as well as if Neal suggested they forget the whole thing and go rob the Rainier Museum. 

“All right,” said Peter. “Then we’ll move forward with this.” Now he pointed at the flip chart. 

“If Elizabeth agrees,” Neal said. She, at least, could tell Peter he was being a self-sacrificing idiot. 

#

When they got back to the motel, Neal went to sit outside, and Peter called Elizabeth. “Hey, hon, how was your day?”

“Fine,” she said. “How was yours?”

“Weird.” He explained about the Clinic and the appointment Sandburg had made for them. “Also, apparently Sandburg’s mother was the Rosa Parks of Guides, and I had no idea.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “ _Naomi_ Sandburg?”

“You’ve heard of her, too?”

“I did some reading about Guides when we were dating,” Elizabeth said. “How did the appointment go?”

“It was weird. Did you know that Neal still thinks I’m only his Guide because I was blackmailed into it?”

“It sounds like you didn’t know that,” Elizabeth noted. 

“No, I didn’t. So that was—well, actually, that didn’t come up until the very end, but they said the first thing we had to do was figure out if we should get him another Guide.” 

“Oh. _Honey_. You’re not going to give up on him, are you?”

“I thought he’d jump at the chance to have somebody who knows what they’re doing, but he said he wants to keep going.”

“Good. I know things were rocky for you two at first, but I think you’d miss him. And nobody’s going to care about him more than you do.”

“So you don’t think that me continuing as Neal’s Guide is going to put strain on our marriage?”

“Who said that?” Elizabeth sounded ready to give that person a piece of her mind.

“Neal.”

“Where did he get an idea like that?”

Her tone was faintly accusatory. “I don’t know.” He didn’t remember saying anything that would give Neal that impression, but who knew what went on in Neal’s head? “Apparently he worries about it a lot.” 

“Oh, sweetie….”

“He’s not in the room.”

“Did you make him go outside again?”

“I didn’t _make_ him. Anyway, they say it is a problem some married Guides have, and that’s one of the things we’re going to be getting counseling about.”

“You and Neal are getting counseling about our marriage?” Elizabeth’s tone was amused rather than offended.

“I think you’re supposed to be involved somehow. I don’t know; that was around hour three of the whole thing. I was mostly smiling and nodding by then.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Three hours of counseling? Poor Peter.”

“We took a break in the middle so Neal could have a physical.”

“Poor Neal, too. 

“And today was just for them figure out what our problems are,” Peter said. 

“That only took three hours?”

“Start figuring out. They want us to stay for a month. How do you feel about that?” He was pleased with himself for remembering to ask an open-ended question, rather than something like, ‘you don’t mind, do you?’

“I’ll miss you,” Elizabeth said practically, “but it won’t be the first time.”

“That’s what I thought. That was when the strain on our marriage thing came up.”

“Hm. Well, tell Neal—on second thought, I want to talk to Neal.”

“Right now?”

“No; after we talk.”

“Okay.”

“I was thinking, if there’s some time that you can get away, you could come out for a few days.” Peter looked around the room. Maybe they’d try to find a better motel for that. 

“I’ll have to look at my calendar and talk to Yvonne, but I’d like that.”

“Good. It’s a nice town.” Not that they had seen much more of it than the motel, the police station, and a warehouse, but what he’d seen on the way to and from those places looked nice. “Pretty. There’s a mountain.”

They talked about ordinary things for a while—Peter’s case, Elizabeth’s events, mutual friends, and how Satchmo was dragging his behind on the carpet again and needed to be taken to the vet.

“You should call a plumber about the bathroom sink, too,” Peter said. It was dripping, and he’d meant to fix it before he left, but hadn’t gotten around to it. “It’s probably just a washer, but it’ll waste a lot of water if it keeps leaking for a month.”

“I can replace a washer. I’ll look it up on the internet.”

“Okay, but don’t forget to turn off the water before you start. I’m not sure if there’s a shutoff valve under the sink, or if you’ll have to go down to the basement and shut off the water to the whole house.”

“I’ll remember that,” Elizabeth said.

“Maybe you should have the plumber do it.”

“I’ll look into it, and if I don’t think I can figure it out, I’ll call a plumber.”

“I should have just done it before I left.” If he had known how long he was going to be away, he would have. 

“Peter. Stop obsessing.”

“I’m not--”

“I’m now chair of the sink-fixing committee. I’ll consult with the membership if I need any feedback.”

Peter sighed. “I hope the counselors here don’t know that metaphor.”

#

“So I think I’ll be here a while,” Neal concluded his account of the day’s events. Even if Peter saw reason and decided to bow out, the Clinic people would probably want him to stay.

“Should I send a care package?” Mozzie asked.

“That would be nice,” Neal agreed. “Oh, and guess what? The local team they have us working with—it’s the museum guy.”

“ _No_ ,” said Moz.

“Yes,” Neal answered. 

“So is it _true_?” 

“I didn’t have any irresistible urges to prostrate myself.” When describing the rumors surrounding the Temple regalia, Neal had left out one key detail: that the objects gave their owner the mystical powers of the Sentinel King. That was why they were of such value to certain collectors, and Kate had wanted to steal them—she liked the idea of being Guide-Queen to his Sentinel King, even if it was only temporarily. 

“What about resistible ones?” Mozzie asked.

“Not that I noticed. The Clinic got us in really fast once Sandburg asked them to, but they said it was just because of the Ellison money.” But if the staff was mostly Sentinels and Guides, as it seemed to be, obedience to their kings could be another reason. 

“They would say that,” Mozzie pointed out. 

“True.” Neal heard barking in the background. “Are you _in my apartment_?”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know; _anywhere else_?”

“June and I had book club.”

And that meant Mozzie had to spend the evening in his apartment? “Are you going to sleep there?”

“Maybe.”

Not in his bed, Neal hoped. “June should start charging you rent.”

Moz changed the subject. “So have you been to see it?”

“What, the regalia? No. We haven’t really had time for anything other than work so far. Anyway, I’m on a quarter-mile radius here.”

“If you do go, you should probably take the Suit anyway,” Moz said reluctantly.

“What, to protect me from the curse?”

“You aren’t going to think about stealing it with him standing right there.”

Speak of the devil. The room door opened, and Peter was, in fact, standing right there. “Gotta go.” Neal closed his phone and put it in his pocket. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Peter held out his own phone. “Elizabeth wants to talk to you.”

Neal looked at the phone warily. “About what?”

“You could ask her that,” Peter suggested. 

Seeing no way out of it, Neal took the phone. “Good evening, Mrs. Burke.”

“Hi, Neal.”

“How are you?” He kept a wary eye on Peter.

“I’m fine, and yourself?”

“Fine.”

“So what’s this I hear about you putting a strain on our marriage?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to _avoid_ doing,” he pointed out.

“That’s why you haven’t been telling him how bad things are for you,” she said. “Because if he knew, he’d try to help, and then you’d be—let me guess— _ruining his life_. Right?”

“The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted.

“That’s sweet, Neal, really.”

“Thanks,” he said cautiously.

“And very, very, stupid. I knew Peter was a Guide when I married him.”

“He never planned on actually being anyone’s Guide,” Neal pointed out.

“Yes, and everyone’s life always works out exactly the way they plan, does it? I knew this could happen.”

“Really— _this_?” Not even Neal had foreseen _this_. 

“Well, not exactly _this_ ,” she admitted, “but mandatory testing could have come back, or he could have been spotted by a Bureau Sentinel, or he could have met a Bureau Sentinel he liked and come out of the closet on his own. I knew going in that I could end up being married to a working Guide.”

“Oh,” Neal said.

“I did some reading about it when we were dating, and again when this came up. When you first asked him to be your Guide, I mean. I had some idea what we were getting into.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“There’s no reason you would, since _Peter_ apparently didn’t know what he was getting into. I didn’t know that until yesterday; I assumed he was doing his research at work or something.” She sounded fondly exasperated. “If I’d realized he was just floating down the river Denial, I’d have handcuffed him to a chair and put a book in front of him.”

“That might have been a good idea.”

“And you, too.”

“Well, I would have just picked the cuffs,” Neal pointed out. Peter gave him a strange look. 

“What, exactly, did you _think_ would happen if I started to feel like Peter was neglecting our marriage?”

“Um….” Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to outline his prison-divorce-resentment scenarios with Peter giving him that _look_. 

“You had a girlfriend, didn’t you? What did you do when you two had a problem?”

“We didn’t, really. Except once.”

“What did you do?”

“Broke up. For several years.”

“Oh, honey. Be sure you mention that to the counselor. If it was entirely up to Peter,” she admitted, “it’s possible that we’d do nothing until the entire situation exploded and we all hated each other. But since it wouldn’t be, we’d sit down—all three of us—and figure out something we can all live with. And now, if something comes up that we can’t handle on our own, we can get all three of us, your counselors from out there, and our marriage counselor on a conference call.”

“You guys really have a marriage counselor?” Peter had mentioned that at the Clinic, but somehow, Neal hadn’t quite believed it. Peter and Elizabeth seemed so solid and normal. 

“Yes. If you haven’t noticed, Peter has a few _issues_ with communication, and I’m not an idiot. We had some counseling before we got married, and we go in every now and then for a tune-up when Peter gets his head crammed too far up his ass for me to pry it out on my own.”

“Oh,” Neal said again. Maybe that was how they _stayed_ solid and normal. 

“So,” Elizabeth said, “you’re going to stay out there for a month and do what the people at the Clinic tell you to do. And if I decide I can’t bear not seeing my husband’s face for that long—or if I’m not too busy living my own life—I’ll come out and visit. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Neal said. 

“Good. And we’re going to talk more, from here on out. You and me, I mean.”

“We are?”

“Yes. The books for mundane spouses say that it works best to consider your spouse’s partner part of the family. I talk to my family at least once a week, so pencil me in, brother-in-law.”

Neal tried to figure out whether, in this metaphor, he was supposed to be related to Peter by blood or marriage, but both options were too brain-breaking for him, so he settled on a meek, “Okay.”

After informing him that if Peter started obsessing about being a bad Guide, Neal could probably distract him by mentioning the leaky bathroom sink, Elizabeth instructed him to give the phone back to Peter. 

Peter listened for a moment, then said, “Uh-huh. Yes. I know. Okay. We will. Okay. Love you too.” He closed the phone. “I’m supposed to give you a hug for her.”

“Maybe we could just take that as read,” Neal suggested.

“Do you want to call her back and argue about it?”

“Not really,” Neal admitted.

“Neither do I.”

They hugged. Neal supposed it wasn’t _that_ bad. 

They settled on the place across the street, again, for dinner, since neither of them had a better idea. “If we’re staying here for a month, we’re going to have to find some more restaurants,” Neal said as they sat down. He supposed this place wasn’t _too_ bad, but he felt that after the third visit, he’d have explored the nuances of the menu as fully as he cared to. And now that he had his per diem, he definitely got a vote.

“We can do that,” Peter agreed. 

“I’m going to need more clothes, too.” The quarter-mile radius was going to become a problem, too, but maybe he’d wait and bring that one up in therapy.

“You do realize they have Laundromats and dry-cleaners here, don’t you?”

“I can’t wear the same four ties for a month, Peter. I’m not an _animal_.”

“Right, I forgot, that’s what separates humanity from the animals, the variety of our ties.”

“Yogi Bear always wears that green one.” Neal couldn’t think of any other animals that wore ties at all.

“He also wears a hat and steals things.” Peter looked pointedly at Neal’s own hat.

“Just picnic baskets.”

“Well, he is a bear. They’re probably not smart enough to plan more complicated crimes.”

“Or to change their ties,” Neal said. “As was my point. I’ll have to have some more sent from New York.” Maybe he should call Mozzie back and suggest that for the care package—God knew what he’d get otherwise. 

Possibly wine, and if the bottle broke in the same package with his ties, he’d be unhappy. He’d ask _June_ to send him ties. And shirts. And maybe another suit or two. Possibly in separate packages, and frequently. That way, if he needed to have Mozzie send anything they didn’t want Peter to see, he would be used to Neal receiving lots of mail and wouldn’t be paying attention. He wasn’t sure what he might want to have Mozzie send that Peter shouldn’t see, but it was good to be prepared. 

After dinner, they went back to the room, where Peter settled down to read on Cyndi’s Kindle. Since Neal hadn’t brought along any paper books, he decided to look at the ones Blair had given Peter. One was called _The Guide Studies Reader_ , but proved to be full of dense essays arguing the nuances of issues Neal had never heard of. _Guiding in the Workplace_ was a little more accessible, but not exactly leisure reading. The last, Blair’s book, _Watching the Watchers_ was a history of Guides from prehistory to World War Two. 

It started with an introduction that would have been almost incomprehensible if Neal hadn’t just learned about the “wailing and gnashing of teeth” that had occurred when Sandburg took a Sentinel. The book, Blair explained, traced exactly how the treatment of Guides had become so disturbing up to the first half of the twentieth century, demonstrating that Guide subjugation arose for specific historical reasons and was neither natural nor inevitable. 

Reading between the lines, Neal figured the book was, at least in part, an argument that Blair hadn’t sold out by Bonding with Ellison. 

Over on the other bed, Peter choked. “Take a look at this.”

“What is it?” 

“Page 84.” 

So much else had happened that Neal had forgotten all about what Ellison had said that morning, but, reminded, he hurried over to look. 

Page 84 was a photo, showing a woman with long hair parted down the middle, standing at a podium with one fist raised, clearly orating. Next to her was a toddler holding a sign, larger than he was, that read, “I AM NOT A SLAVE.” The caption read, “Guide-rights activist Naomi Sandburg, speaking at the 1972 March on Washington, with her son, also a Guide.”

“Wow,” Neal said. “It’s not every day you meet somebody who has a baby picture in a _For Dummies_ book.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “And look, he had the hair even then.”

True, the boy in the photo had hair down to his shoulders, much like present-day Blair. “What was she protesting in 1972? The draft was over for ages by then, wasn’t it?”

“The Sentinel-Guide draft ended in 1953,” Peter said. “But the general draft lasted until 1972, and it included women Sentinels and Guides. That’s what I just read, anyway. Ending the special draft was the first wave of the civil rights movement. Apparently.”

“Oh, and she was second wave,” Neal recalled. “What were they about?”

“Ending the--” Peter scrolled back a few pages “—‘all but un-checked power that Sentinels had over their Bonded or assigned Guides, including control over all money and property earned or belonging to the Guide, right to impose almost any discipline they saw fit, and to forbid marriage or other intimate relationships.’”

“That explains the sign,” Neal noted. “All that was still going on in _1972_?”

“Yep.”

“I thought that was further back than that.” His hazy impression was that the Guide civil rights movement had happened in the 40’s and 50’s, a period that seemed comfortably remote. He had been _born_ in the 70’s. Or almost, depending on which of his ID’s you were looking at.

“So did I,” said Peter. 

“Explains my per diem, too.” And why Tim had put his money troubles on his list of four big problems. They were both familiar with the history—very familiar, in Blair’s case—and would be primed to see it as a political issue rather than an inconvenience.

“It’s backwards, though,” Peter pointed out. “Sentinels always got paid.”

“Still,” Neal said. “Anything else interesting in there so far?” Maybe he ought to read that book when Peter finished with it.

Peter shrugged. “I’m almost done with the history section. Next up is--” He paged forward. “—living and working with Sentinels.”

Neal returned to his own book, which started with Blair explaining that few facts were known about Sentinels and Guides in prehistoric Europe—which, Neal thought, went along with the word _prehistoric_ —and that much of the information was conjecture based on observations of more recent societies that had similar tools and houses. Only it took Blair about ten pages to say that. 

#

When Peter got into the practical part of the book, he was boggled by the sheer number of things that could cause problems for Sentinels. These ranged from territory issues—one of the few that he had already known about—to sensitivity to cleaning products and other chemicals, difficulties with the sounds produced by fluorescent lighting and some kinds of computer monitors, and various interpersonal issues. The book noted that in the workplace, these special needs were accommodated under both Sentinel-specific legislation and the Americans with Disabilities Act. Peter made a note of that, since the ADA _did_ apply fully to incarcerated individuals. 

There was a whole chapter on travel, with a long section on airplanes in particular. Engine noise, vibration, and breathing recycled air for several hours could all pose significant problems for Sentinels, as could being in close quarters with so many other people. Many Sentinels either traveled exclusively by car or had to be sedated for flights. Some didn’t travel at all, since leaving their territories produced psychological discomfort that could manifest as anxiety, irritability, or physical illness. 

Hotels and motels were also a problem. They could be noisy, and there were cleaning product issues again—many motels used the wrong ones, apparently—as well as territorial issues. The average Sentinel, the book said, could smell everyone who had been in the room for the last month or so—more if there was what the book delicately called, “traces that have not been adequately cleaned.” That, along with having strangers, AKA the cleaning staff, going in and out every day, made the Sentinel feel that his or her temporary territory was insecure. Additionally, the level of cleanliness was often not up to Sentinel standards. (Peter thought of Neal’s remarks about the bedspreads being full of dead skin cells. Could he actually _see_ them? Or smell them? Or did he just know they were there?)

The book listed a few chains that were generally Sentinel-friendly (Best Western was not among them) and suggested obtaining a complete list of recommended establishments from the Rainier Sentinel-Guide Clinic. 

“Is this motel okay for you?” Peter asked. 

Neal looked up from one of the books Sandburg had given them. “I’d rather be somewhere with room service. Why?”

“The book says a lot of Sentinels have trouble with hotels.”

“I’ve spent half my life in hotels,” Neal answered. “Although, since we’re going to be here a while, if they could move us to a room on the end, where I only have to listen to _one_ person’s TV, that’d be good.”

“I can talk with them about that,” Peter agreed. “You could have mentioned it before, you know.”

“I asked the desk clerk,” Neal said. “The room I want is occupied through Sunday. I said not to worry about it since we’d probably be leaving Monday or Tuesday anyway, but if we’re staying, we might as well take it.”

“It’s a rectangular, two-story building,” Peter pointed out. “There should be four end rooms.”

“The office is on the ground floor at the north end,” Neal reminded him. “And I don’t like the south end; it’s too near the pool and the laundry room. The room above the office is the best one.” 

Neal had clearly given the problem a lot of thought, while Peter hadn’t even known there _was_ a problem. “Okay,” he said. “Are there any other things that like that we can fix?”

“Once we get to the new room I’m going to have them wash the bedspreads,” Neal answered. “We may have to bribe the maid. And if we’re really here for a month, I’m either going to buy some decent towels or have some sent from home; I haven’t decided which makes sense.” 

“What’s wrong with the towels?” The book didn’t say anything about towels.

“They’re half the size of normal towels and have the texture and absorbency of sandpaper. In other words, they’re motel towels. I was willing to live with them for a week, but a month is pushing it.” 

Peter wasn’t sure if that was a Sentinel problem or a Neal problem, but either way, it sounded like he had it under control. “Any other issues with the motel?”

Neal looked around. “No. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d talk us into a penthouse suite at one of the nice hotels downtown, where there’s room service and a view and fluffy towels, but this isn’t _barbaric_.”

Peter supposed that was the nicest thing Neal could bring himself to say about a motel of any kind. “We could see what else there is in this price range, but I don’t think you’re getting room service and a view on the FBI’s budget.”

“This is, what, about seventy-nine a night? I don’t think we can do much better. I’ve already cultivated the desk clerk, and our breakfast place is right down the street. Might as well stay.”

“Okay.” Unless he’d missed something—which was possible—they had successfully talked through the problem. Neal said what bothered him about the motel, they had a plan to fix the aspects they could fix, and nobody mentioned prison. Not bad for only three hours of therapy so far.

#

The next day, they followed the same schedule as yesterday—morning at the warehouse, afternoon at the Clinic. Sandburg must have either gotten a better handle on his temper or decided that Peter wasn’t really an abusive prick; he eased back considerably on the hostility. Peter wondered if the Clinic had given him an update. 

In any case, Peter gave him another one, explaining the general outline of what the Clinic had in mind for them, and how they were going to be liaising with Ellison and Sandburg in the mornings only. That was fine with them—great, actually, since they had other cases to work on, and identifying all of the stolen art wasn’t a huge priority for the Cascade PD. They agreed to take the weekend off from the case—apparently Sandburg and Ellison had plans, and Ellison still didn’t want them in his crime scene without him—and meet at the police station on Monday. 

Midmorning, Hughes called. Mouthing, “Hughes” at Neal, Peter took the call outside the warehouse. It turned out that the Clinic had worked their promised magic, necessitating that Peter give yet another summary of the events of the last few days, on both case and Sentinel fronts. 

“I didn’t know Caffrey was having problems,” Hughes said, when he had finished.

“Neither did I, until yesterday. I think we owe it to him to get him the best help, since we let things slide for so long, and the people at Rainier are supposed to be the best.”

“They have a good reputation,” Hughes said. “The Bureau’s sent a few Sentinels there before—usually, we try working with our own people first.”

“I told you about Sandburg, sir,” Peter reminded him.

“Yes. We’ll make do without you for a month—not that DC is giving us much choice. There are a few people down there who think Caffrey’s probably scamming the Clinic into giving him a free vacation on the Bureau’s dime, but even they think it’s better to just let it play out than risk making enemies with Rainier. They’re the biggest source of Guides outside the military, and if they start saying we mistreat Sentinels, we’ll have a recruiting problem on our hands, just for starters.”

“He’s not scamming them,” Peter said. 

“I hope not. Make sure you keep an eye on him, though—it could be that he has his own reasons for wanting to be out there for a month.”

“I’ll watch him,” Peter promised. This, he supposed, was what Tim was talking about when he said that the roles of handler and Guide were incompatible. As Neal’s Guide, Peter had to make sure Neal knew he could trust him. As his handler, Peter had to distrust him. “Between the case and the Clinic, I hope he’ll be too busy to get into trouble.”

Hughes signed off, and Peter went back inside. Neal was looking over Sandburg’s shoulder at the laptop. “—almost the same,” he was saying. “If it’s an unknown canvas from the same artist, it could have been circulating on the black market since the forties.” He smiled up at Peter. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What did Hughes have to say?”

“That they can live without us for a month,” Peter answered. 

“Good. Shall we?” He extended his hand toward the depths of the warehouse.

After the morning’s work and lunch at a place near the University, recommended by Sandburg, they returned to the Clinic, where they were directed to Tim’s office.

“We thought, if it’s all right with you, I’d be your counselor moving forward,” he said. “If you’d rather meet some of the other counselors and make a choice, we can arrange that, too.”

“It’s okay with me,” Neal said. “No Michelle?”

“We got the impression that Peter and Michelle didn’t develop much of a rapport yesterday,” Tim said delicately.

“Accurate,” Peter said. He didn’t _dislike_ her, but she seemed to alternate between being brisk almost to the point of abruptness and being excessively touchy-feely. He could have learned to tolerate either, but the constant switching back and forth was grating. “Yes, we can keep working with you. That’s fine.”

“Good. Today, after we talk for a little while, you’ll have your first theory and lab lesson. We have you scheduled with Dr. Desai—she specializes in working with Sentinels who have come out of latency, which isn’t exactly the situation you’re dealing with, but it’s similar enough that we thought she’d be the best person for you to start with. Are you available tomorrow? We only have morning hours on Saturdays.”

“Yes,” Peter said.

“Good; since your time here is limited, we’d like to keep working on Saturdays. Sundays we’re closed except for emergencies, so you’ll get a little bit of a break.”

With the logistics out of the way, they got down to business, which turned out to be a rehash of what they had decided yesterday, about Peter staying on as Neal’s Guide, with a number of questions about whether their thoughts or feelings had changed overnight. They also each related their conversations with Elizabeth. Neal seemed surprised that she has said mostly the same things to each of them; Peter wasn’t sure what he expected. 

“That reminds me,” Neal added. “She said I should mention how the only time Kate and I really fought, she left me for several years.”

“Kate, your previous Guide,” Tim said. 

“And my girlfriend, yes.”

“That explains a lot.”

“It does?” said Neal.

“Yesterday, you seemed certain that any conflict between you and Peter, or Peter and Elizabeth, would inevitably end in disaster for all parties. Even given your concerns about returning to prison, those fears seemed…exaggerated.”

“His breakup with Kate also led, indirectly, to the FBI finally catching him,” Peter put in. Why hadn’t he seen that? 

“How’s that?” Tim asked.

Peter and Neal exchanged a look. “It’s pretty complicated, and probably not relevant,” Neal said. “We got back together literally minutes before I was arrested.”

“We used Kate as bait in a trap to catch him,” Peter said. “And when I say ‘we,’ I mean me.”

“I see,” said Tim, looking a little shellshocked.

“I knew it was probably a trap,” Neal added. “I went anyway.”

“Okay.” Tim nodded a few times. “Let’s put a pin in that and come back to it. Your history with managing interpersonal conflict is poor,” he summarized. 

“I guess you could say that,” Neal agreed. 

“The thing to remember,” Tim said, “is that Sentinel-Guide relationships are like all relationships; no two people get along perfectly all the time. Even in Bonded pairs, there are disagreements, miscommunications. First you have to know _that_ you can survive them, then you have to know _how_ to survive them.”

Towards the end of their pre-marriage counseling, he and El had made couples’ counseling Bingo cards. What Tim had just said was good for at least three squares. 

“The up side to this difficult situation that’s developed over the past couple of months is that once you’ve dealt with it, you’ll have a lot more confidence in your ability to cope with future conflicts.”

And there was another one—finding something positive. 

Tim went on to outline some ‘communication strategies’ that they could work on using. Neal, after hearing the list, said to Peter, “You used at least three of those last night.”

Peter nodded. “This is not my first rodeo.”

“Can I ask,” Tim said, “since you have learned about effective communication in the past, why did you….”

“Not do any of it before last night?” Peter finished for him. 

Tim nodded.

Peter had to think about that one for a while. “I guess,” he finally said, “because I was thinking of this,” he gestured between himself and Neal, “as a job, not a relationship.”

Tim nodded. “And really, it’s a little bit of both, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. In a job—in my job, at least—you build trust by being good at what you do, not by talking about it,” Peter said. “And I wasn’t doing that, either.”

Tim nodded again. “We’re going to address that, too, and it’s about time for your first lesson. Does anyone have any closing remarks?”

They didn’t, so Tim directed them to a part of the building they hadn’t seen yet. Peter was expecting a clean room, like they used for their lessons at the Bureau, but instead they found what looked like a vaguely Asian sitting room, with low tables and floor cushions, and even one of those little rock gardens with the sand and the tiny rake. A dark-skinned African American woman with a short natural hairstyle sat cross-legged on one of the cushions; Peter supposed she was Dr. Desai. 

Neal matter-of-factly slipped off his shoes, and Peter followed suit, glad he hadn’t worn any of his more unusual socks today. 

The woman stood. “Good afternoon. I’m Suzanne Desai.” She had a slight French accent, and Peter revised his opinion of her ethnicity: African, from one of the Francophone countries, rather than African American. 

They introduced themselves, and Dr. Desai invited them to sit. Peter chose a cushion somewhat dubiously. Neal sat in what looked to Peter like a perfect half-lotus. 

“Ah,” Desai said. “Do you meditate?”

“Not much,” Neal answered. “A good friend of mind dabbles in Zen.” 

“You may wish to join your friend,” Desai advised. “Meditation is very good for Sentinels. But that is not why we are here today. You have had sensory theory instruction before?”

“I’m not sure if I’d call it theory,” Neal said. “But I’ve had lessons, yes.”

“With Mr. Ketner.” Desai nodded. “Tell me how you began.” 

Neal summarized the first lesson. “He tried to start with some sensory tests—like we did here yesterday—but I didn’t know enough to do that. He asked if I knew how to link, which I did, so then we did that and worked on dials.”

“I see. And did he ask Peter if he knew how to link?” She turned to him.

“No,” Peter said. 

“And you did not, did you?”

“No.”

“We will begin again,” she pronounced. “Linking creates an empathic connection between Sentinel and Guide….” She went on to explain the process at some length. If this was theory, then Ketner had definitely skipped it. Having read a little about it in _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_ , Peter could just about follow her explanation, but felt he ought to be taking notes. But she concluded, “All of that happens inside the brain; neither the Sentinel nor the Guide need be aware of it. Now, Peter, I would like you to link with me, if you please.”

“You’re a Sentinel?”

“Indeed I am.” She held out her hand. Peter went to grasp her wrist, but instead she clasped her hand in his. Peter waited for her to link with him, but instead of doing so, she said, “Both Sentinels and Guides can initiate a link, but it is generally easier for a Guide to do so, and the Sentinel must also control his dials, so it is fair for the Guide to perform this part, no? Reach out with your mind, as you reached out with your hand.”

Easier said than done. Peter ‘reached’—or thought he was, anyway—but nothing happened. 

“Try again,” Desai said. “I am over here.” 

It took him five tries—two more than it had taken Neal on their first lesson. And when he finally managed it, he realized that Desai was meeting him halfway, holding out her mental ‘hand’ for him to clasp. 

“Very well,” she said, releasing her hand from his. “We will do it one more time.”

This time, Peter managed in one try. 

“Good.” She turned to Neal. “Ordinarily, it is more difficult for the Sentinel to learn to hold himself open for the link, but Tim has indicated you already know how.”

Neal nodded. “Do you want us to try it now?”

“Yes.”

Neal held out his hand, and Peter took his wrist. 

“Wait.”

Peter let go.

“You are doing this backwards. If you think it not masculine to hold hands, it is usual for the Sentinel to hold the wrist of the Guide. Do you know why this is done?”

“I always heard it was a dominance thing,” Peter said. For obvious reasons, he’d thought it was better not to do it that way. 

“Many mundanes believe this, and even some Sentinels,” Desai said. “It is done because breaking the link unexpectedly, when the Sentinel is not prepared, is very disorienting. If the Sentinel controls the physical aspect of the link, he can be sure that this will not happen.”

Oh.

“I believe that this has been happening to Neal nearly every time that you link,” she continued. “What ordinarily occurs is that you discontinue the link and Neal immediately falls upon the ground, yes?”

“Not always _immediately_ ,” Neal said.

“You begin to feel unwell immediately,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Before ending the link, you must adjust your dials to their ordinary settings, and re-familiarize yourself with your surroundings,” she explained. “It is also best to end the link mentally before ending physical contact. We will practice this.”

They did. They linked, separated, and linked again at least fifteen times before Dr. Desai pronounced herself satisfied. Each time, she had Peter ask Neal if he was ready before ending the link. 

All that, without Neal doing a thing with his senses. That didn’t come until after they had taken a tea-break (Jasmine tea in handle-less cups, to match the décor, Peter supposed) and Desai talked about dials for a while. She explained that there were several other metaphors the Sentinel could use. “Electronic devices with dials have been generally known for only a short time,” she pointed out, something that Peter had never thought of before. “And now that many of the young people have never used a radio or television with a dial, other metaphors are becoming more popular. As a child, I was first taught to imagine a sluice-gate in an irrigation system. One may raise it a small amount, to allow a trickle of water through, or raise it entirely to create a torrent, or anything in between. These were a familiar sight in the village where I grew up, and especially familiar to me because my father was a hydraulic engineer.”

She paused to pour them each a second cup of tea. “But most American Sentinels use the dial, and you may wish to continue. The metaphor that I was taught, however, is useful because any village child knows that opening a sluice gate too far, too soon, damages the tender young plants. It is only when they have grown large and strong that one can open the gate fully and water them quickly. As a Sentinel, you are a young plant, and must first learn to understand what your senses are telling you when they are opened only a little, before you are able to open the gate fully. This I believe Mr. Ketner neglected to explain to you.”

“Yes, he did,” Peter agreed. 

Neal nodded. “I’ve been going up to nine or ten in lessons—I have to, to do the things he has me doing.”

“Once you have learned properly, you will be able to distinguish more at only six or seven than you now can at nine or ten,” Desai said. 

When teatime was finished, they started up again. Desai instructed Peter in talking Neal through adjusting his dials—only to five and a half or six, for this lesson—and had Neal examine various objects using different senses. The sand tray turned out to be what she used for touch, instead of Braille dots. She had Neal start by touching and describing it, then placed small pinches in his hand for him to count the grains, then had him roll a single grain between his fingertips and describe its shape and texture. Peter expected Neal to rebel, if not at the second step, then surely by the third, but Neal apparently saw some point to the exercise. 

By the time they finished, three hours had gone by—the same as one of Neal’s lessons with Ketner. But when Peter ended their link for the last time—first asking Neal if he was ready—Neal stayed upright, bright-eyed, and alert. Peter kept a close eye on him as he stood up, but he still seemed fine. 

“How do you feel?” Peter asked.

“Good,” Neal said. “A little tired, but good.”

Desai recommended a nice dinner and some quiet time with his Guide, which led Neal to ask for restaurant recommendations. He’d already gotten several from Sandburg and Ellison, the hotel clerk, Tim, and the Clinic receptionist, but maybe he was keeping a mental list. 

Neal finished up by bowing to Desai—something he definitely wouldn’t have done if he felt sick; he usually tried not to move his head then—calling her “Desai-Sensei,” which seemed to amuse both of them. 

#

Despite everything they’d learned and how well he felt immediately after the lesson, Neal didn’t quite believe that he wasn’t about to keel over until they were outside the Clinic building. There, he could smell the flowering trees and hear the traffic noise, but neither was overwhelming. The trees were even pleasant. “What should we do about dinner?” he asked. He wasn’t quite sure who had picked the sandwich place where they’d had lunch—they had just sort of settled on it as the closest to the Clinic of Blair’s suggestions. Either way, it had been a mistake. It did, indeed, have sandwiches, but they were heavier on avocado and sprouts than Neal personally liked, and made on the kind of whole-grain bread that had you worrying about your dental work. 

“You don’t need to lie down first?”

“No, I’m good.” He was sort of hungry for sushi, but the only sushi place he knew about had been another of Blair’s recommendations, and Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to risk another one of his places without independent confirmation. “What about the Spring Hill Brewery?” Sandburg had recommended that one, but so had Desai and the desk clerk, so it was probably all right. They made their own beer, apparently, which he thought Peter might like, and it wasn’t the place across from the motel, which Neal would definitely like. 

Peter agreed, and it turned out to be a good choice. The place had a respectable wine cellar in addition to the handcrafted beer, and the menu had all the standards, plus some more innovative options. They ate and drank well, and Neal found himself explaining Mozzie’s Zen safecracking lessons, after a careful disclaimer that he had acquired that particular skill for entertainment purposes only. 

“He was right, though, because if your heart’s pounding—as it might be when you’re cracking a safe for entertainment purposes—that alone can make you miss one of the tumblers if it’s a really sensitive mechanism.” He shrugged. “Practicing Zazen and learning Braille for safecracking turned out to be less crazy than it seemed, so I’m willing to give playing with sand a chance.” If it had been as painful and difficult as Ketner’s exercises, which did at least have an obvious point, he might have balked, but the lesson had been almost fun.

Back at the motel, Peter took off his shoes, pulled back the bedspread, and sat up against the headboard of his bed, Cyndi’s Kindle at hand. Neal went to assume a similar position on his own bed, but Peter patted the space next to him. “Sit with me.”

That, again? At least they were fully clothed this time. “I don’t need to.”

“Do you need _not_ to?”

“…I guess not.” He didn’t have any particular objection to sitting on a bed with Peter, except that it was a little weird. He grabbed his book and sat down. 

After a moment, Peter put his arm around Neal’s shoulders. “How’s this?”

“Okay, I guess.” They sat like that for another minute. “I’m going to read now.”

“Good idea,” Peter said quickly, picking up the Kindle. 

It was, Neal had to admit, very convenient for when Peter found something in his book that he wanted to show him. Nothing quite as good as Blair’s baby picture, unfortunately, but there were some charts and tables about various situations and products Sentinels had trouble with, and explanations of how linking worked that were a little less technical than what Suzanne had explained that afternoon. Peter also pointedly drew Neal’s attention to the passage that explained how one was likely to see Sentinels and Guides touching a lot more than average, and it was perfectly normal and not necessarily sexual (see chapter 12.) 

“That book has a sex chapter?” Neal asked.

“I haven’t gotten there yet.”

Neal’s book, once he got past the Stone Age parts, started explaining how the Holy Roman Empire’s march across Europe remade various indigenous cultures in Rome’s image. Now, finally, Neal was able to recognize a few landmarks, since the same process could be traced in art and architecture, as the classical and early Christian styles and themes of Rome mixed with those of the Byzantine, Islamic, and ‘northern barbarian’ worlds. He wasn’t _particularly_ familiar with the period—most of what was still extant from that period tended to be incorporated into buildings or other structures, and therefore quite difficult to steal—but once he reached the middle ages, he was on familiar footing. 

The practice of cloistering female Guides in nunneries from childhood to Bonding age, for example, he had known about because that particular class of holy virgins had been a popular subject for late Medieval and early Renaissance painters, the beautiful girls standing in for the Church and their handsome Sentinels for the Church’s bridegroom, Christ. Neal had never given much thought to where the male Guides were when that was going on, or the female Sentinels, for that matter, and was surprised to see that—according to Blair, at least—they were largely undocumented because the Church claimed neither existed. He asked Peter if he had ever heard of that.

“Yeah, there was a paragraph about that in the history chapter I read yesterday.”

“Well, if you want to know more about it, Blair has about a hundred pages on it.” Neal kept reading, and, oh look, his book had a sex part, too. It explained, in great depth, the early church’s attitudes about sex and gender, and how those shaped ideas about Sentinels and Guides even today. There was a lot of stuff on how Guiding was still ‘coded as feminine,’ which Neal thought probably had a lot to do with Peter’s objection to, as he put it, following a Sentinel around holding his hand. The fact that he was a lapsed Catholic might be relevant, too. 

The next day, when they arrived at the Clinic, Neal was surprised to find that their first appointment was not with Tim or Suzanne but with yet another new person, a mundane named Patricia Wallace, who identified herself as the facilities director.

Neal wasn’t sure why they were meeting with her—they didn’t need any facilities, as far as he knew—but she got to the point quickly. “We understand that the FBI has you staying at the Best Western by the highway. It’s not a very Sentinel-friendly property, and since you’re going to be here for a while, we thought we’d try to arrange something more suitable.”

“We talked about that,” Peter said. “Neal’s fine, and they’re moving us to a different room tomorrow and doing some other things to help us get settled.”

Patricia turned to him for his opinion on the subject. Sensing a possible opportunity to obtain room service and a view, Neal was carefully noncommittal. “It’s been okay so far. A little noisy, but the new room should be better. What did you have in mind?”

What she had in mind turned out to be the Clinic’s on-campus housing for visiting Sentinels and Guides. Neal was skeptical, picturing a dorm, but Patricia took them outside and pointed out a ring of cottages surrounding the garden that adjoined the Clinic. “Each unit has its own defined interior and exterior spaces, which we find is more comfortable for Sentinels. The construction uses only organic, non-reactive materials….”

Neal listened with half an ear as she explained various things he didn’t care about. There was probably no room service here, but there was definitely a view, and the broad selection of restaurants within walking distance more than made up for not being up the street from their breakfast place anymore. 

Patricia walked as she talked, and they soon wound up in front of what Neal thought might be the most picturesque cottage of the lot, half-hidden by a stand of lilacs just beginning to bloom. “We usually try to keep this unit vacant this time of year, for obvious reasons,” she explained, gesturing at the lilacs. “They’re a special variety that the Botany department wouldn’t allow us to dig up…it’s an ongoing issue. Anyhow, it’s vacant, and since Neal isn’t particularly scent-sensitive, we thought it might work for you. Would you like to see inside?”

“Yes, I would,” Neal said brightly. 

The cottage had the same feel as the Clinic building—it was quiet but not muffled, and smelled clean but not sterile. It had the same bamboo floors as the Clinic, here softened with some woven cotton rugs. The bathroom had a tub big enough to accommodate a fully-grown human being, and each of the—separate!—bedrooms had a large bed piled high with bedding that didn’t make Neal cringe to think about. There was also a small kitchen—so, definitely no room service, but Neal knew from experience that it was possible to get tired of going to restaurants three meals a day for a month. His per diem would go further with the occasional meal in, too. 

“It’s nice—really nice—but unless the motel really is a problem for Neal, I don’t think the Bureau’s going to want to pay for an upgrade,” Peter said. 

Patricia answered, “We provide housing for Clinic patients on government or corporate accounts with rates comparable to what they ordinarily pay.”

“All this for seventy-nine a night,” Neal translated. 

Patricia nodded. “Yes. Are you interested?”

“Things like this just happen to you, don’t they?” Peter shook his head.

“People like me.” Neal shrugged. “You said we could see what else was available in the same price range as the motel.”

“I did,” Peter agreed. 

“Turns out this is in the same price range.”

“We’ll take it,” said Peter. 

#

Peter was calling the prisoner tracking hotline to re-set Neal’s radius when Neal emerged from what Peter strongly suspected had been a bubble bath, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe that had come with the cottage. “Yes, two miles from this location. Thank you.” He hung up. “You have a nice bath?”

“Great. There’s whirlpool jets in there—you should try it.” Neal padded over to the kitchenette and poured himself a glass of orange-mango juice. The Clinic had not only provided them with the cottage and explained that they’d be taking over Neal’s ridiculously generous per diem when the police department one ended; they had also encouraged Neal to make a grocery list and sent an intern out to fill it while Peter and Neal were having their lesson with Dr. Desai, assuring him that the Clinic had a fund to take care of the needs of patients without financial resources. 

They were clearly still thinking of Neal as a poor abused waif in need of coddling—and Peter knew he hadn’t lied or even misrepresented anything to make them think that. It just _happened_. Neal obviously had no sense of shame about it, though. He’d declared that he was going to cook tonight, and ordered a mind-boggling list of delicacies that Peter couldn’t imagine coming together in one meal. 

“What do you want to do now?” Even after their lesson, moving in, and Neal’s bath—during which Peter called Elizabeth to let her know about the move—it was barely two o’clock. 

“Well.” Neal looked embarrassed.

“What?” he couldn’t imagine what Neal could possibly be embarrassed to suggest, given his track record.

“I’d kind of like to go to the museum and see the Temple artifacts.”

That was not what Peter had been expecting, but now that Neal had said it, he wasn’t sure why not. He was a Sentinel; it was a famous Sentinel thing; naturally, he’d want to look at it. “As long as you’re sure you can resist the impulse to steal it,” Peter said. 

“I think I can restrain myself,” Neal said. “Especially with my own FBI escort. I’ll go get dressed.”

The museum was nearby, so once Neal was ready, they walked over. The building was fairly small, and Peter had to admit that Neal was right about the security. Peter spotted half a dozen sets of French doors with ordinary Yale locks. As they neared the entrance, Neal pointed wordlessly to the electrical junction box, which was in plain view and secured only with the standard clasp the electric company put on to keep out vandals. Anyone with a screwdriver could pop it open and cut power to the museum, deactivating the alarm system and security cameras in one easy step.

Once they were inside, Peter could understand why security had not been a priority, at least before Rainier had acquired the Temple artifacts. The gallery that housed them was to the left of the entrance; since they had plenty of time, Neal decided to start with the right-hand gallery and work their way around. The rest of the exhibits were interesting and well-presented, but had little intrinsic value. The nearly-deserted art wing featured handcrafts from Washington State’s Indian tribes alongside a gallery of paintings and sculptures by artists who had attended Rainier or had some other connection to Cascade—Peter had never heard of any of them. The handful of pieces by artists of moderate significance bore tags indicating that they were on loan from other museums or from private collections, including that of the Ellison Foundation. 

The natural history gallery was much the same: rock samples showing the geological diversity of the Cascade mountains; a collection of local fossils, heavy on trilobites and ferns; and stuffed and mounted local animals, many with signs giving the name of the late local resident who had shot them. A group of children at one end tried to muster up some enthusiasm for the three or four small dinosaurs on display, also loans from another collection.

That took them to the anthropology gallery. Peter thought it might be busier than the others, since it housed the museum’s prize pieces, but it, too, was nearly empty. The Temple artifacts were down at the end, so visitors would have to at least walk past the other exhibits to see them, but it wasn’t a very big gallery; Peter could see them glittering under the pin-spots. 

“Looks like Kate was wrong about the curse,” Neal said, looking down at the end of the gallery with an oddly intent expression. 

“Yep,” Peter said. That answered the question of whether Neal was thinking about stealing it, anyway. It was probably a reflex, like blinking. Peter wasn’t superstitious, but he was mildly relieved not to see Neal running from any invisible wild animals.

Neal turned to feign interest in a case of arrowheads and pot shards, keeping one wary eye on the end of the gallery. Peter supposed that was what he’d do if he really was casing the joint—try not to seem too interested in the thing he was stealing. However, given that the Temple regalia were the only even remotely interesting things in the room, Peter thought that not looking at it was more suspicious than looking at it. Peter wandered over closer to the Temple display, not willing to either let Neal out of his sight or spend twenty minutes staring at arrowheads. 

“ _Doggie_!” With an ear-splitting shriek, a blur that Peter identified as a young girl bolted towards the Temple cases. 

Neal went pale and lunged after her. What the hell?

Peter tried to catch his arm as he passed, but Neal shook him off. By the time he arrived at the cases, the girl was crouching on the floor, pretending to pet something and talking excitedly about the doggie. 

Neal stood a few feet off, staring at her and breathing hard. “Are you okay?” Peter asked. The shrieking must have startled him, he finally decided. Maybe he’d even spiked on it. 

Neal took his eyes away from the girl for a second to look at him. “Yeah. This isn’t a problem for you?”

“What isn’t?”

“The tiny child hugging the—oh my God, it’s _licking_ her.”

“Hugging the what?”

Neal glanced over at him again. “You don’t see it? Shi--” Remembering the girl, he said, “Shoot.” 

Before Peter could ask any more questions, a woman hurried up to the Temple display. “Sophia Lin, we do not scream in the museum!”

“Sorry, mommy,” the girl said. She was Asian, the woman white. Adopted, Peter supposed. “Sorry, doggy,” she added, petting the air.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said to Peter. “Her imaginary friend lives here—it’s a dog, apparently. I’m not sure why she can’t play with him at the house, but….”

“It’s, um, neither imaginary nor a dog,” Neal said. “It’s a wolf. A really, really big wolf.” 

Sophia’s mother looked back and forth between Neal and Peter, a fixed smile on her face. 

“It seems to like her,” Neal added. “Now she’s rubbing its tummy.”

“My, what an imagination you have,” the woman said, apparently deciding that Neal was, perhaps, a little bit special. 

Neal went through his pockets, took out a scrap of paper and a pencil, and quickly sketched something. “Ask her to describe the doggie,” he said, handing her the drawing. 

Looking at it, the woman bit her lip. “Sophia, honey,” she said, her voice slightly quavery. 

“What, mommy?”

“These nice men want to know more about your doggie. What color is he?”

“Gray, with white on his legs and tummy and black on his face.”

“Does he have long fur or short fur?”

“Long.”

“What about his tail, is it long or short?”

“Long. Do they want to pet him? He’s a nice doggie.”

With an anxious glance first at Peter, then at another corner of the room, Neal went over to where the girl sat on the floor. He cautiously extended his hand toward the invisible wolf-doggie. “You come here to see him a lot, huh?” Neal asked.

“My mommy only brings me on Saturdays,” Sophia said. “She says the doggie can play at our house, and I ‘vited him, but he never comes.”

“Yeah, I think he, uh, lives here. Do you see the…kitty, too?”

 _Kitty?_

Sophia nodded. “He’s not mean, but he’s not as friendly as the doggie. He lets me pet him _sometimes_ , but you better not try it.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that too,” Neal said. He backed away and rejoined Peter and Sophia’s mother.

“Kitty?” they both said at the same time.

“Some kind of panther,” Neal answered, pointing at the far corner of the gallery. “Black. Sitting over there showing me his teeth and lashing his tail. I don’t think either of them would hurt her,” he added. “If they even can.”

“Are there any other animals?” Peter asked.

“Those are the only two I can see,” Neal said. “Ask Sophia, maybe.”

Sophia’s mother relayed the question to her. Sophia’s answering, “No,” conveyed absolute disdain for the idiocy of adults. When the girl got up from the floor and came over to them, something about the way she walked suggested that the “doggie” was following at her heels. “Mommy can’t see the doggie _or_ the kitty,” she told Neal.

“Neither can Peter,” Neal said. “I’m not sure why, since he’s a Guide, like you.” 

The woman drew her breath in sharply. “Sophia isn’t a Guide.”

“Yes, she is,” Neal answered. “I’m a Sentinel; I can tell.” He smiled down at the child; she smiled up at him, then plopped down on the floor again, playing with the dog some more. 

The woman looked down at her daughter, confirming that she wasn’t paying attention, and said, “Even if she is, I’ve never heard of Guides being able to see _invisible animals_.” 

“Neither have I,” Neal said, with a glance at Peter. He shook his head. This was definitely not covered in _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_. “But we’re just learning. You might want to….” He picked up the sketch of the wolf, which Sophia’s mother had left on the display case near them. Getting a better look at it, Peter realized that the scrap of paper was actually one of the many Clinic business cards they had collected over the last few days. “Give these people a call,” Neal finished. “They’re closed now, but I’m definitely going to ask them about the animals on Monday.”

“Thank you, Mr.…?”

“Caffrey. You can call me Neal.”

“I’m Amanda.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe this. My kid’s imaginary friend is real, _and_ she’s a Guide?”

“Real…ish,” Neal said. “I can see them, but when I tried to pet the wolf, he was just sort of a thick place in the air. I’m not sure if he’s more substantial to her or not. But she’s definitely a Guide.”

“It’s…not a bad thing to be,” Peter added. “She doesn’t have to work as a Guide if she doesn’t want to, but it’s…an option she should know about, as she grows up.”

After Amanda and Sophia had left—Sophia calling, “Bye Doggie! Bye Mr. Neal! Bye, Mr. Peter! Bye, Kitty!”—Neal cautiously went over to the cases to examine the Temple artifacts. Peter went with him, hoping he wasn’t walking through the invisible wolf or anything. He noted that a small sign indicated that the artifacts were on loan from “the indigenous people of Peru.”

“So, you think that kid is planning to steal this stuff?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe in some vague way? ‘Ooh, pretty crown, I want that’?” He shook his head. “Possible, but I think the animals mean something else.”

“What else?”

“No clue.”

Peter looked at the display. The artifacts included a massive golden torc, with matching bracelets, the aforementioned crown, a sort of scepter, and an intricate—and, to Peter’s eye, extraordinarily ugly—chalice or cup, along with a number of smaller pieces. The display had pictures and description of the Temple excavation, with photographs that showed the wall carvings and possible translations of the writing. Several competing theories about the ceremonial function of the objects were explained, but none of them mentioned invisible animals—or any animals at all. The designs on the chalice included symbols that might have been birds and snakes, but nothing that even resembled a panther or a wolf. 

“Are they still here?” Peter asked, looking at where Neal had last indicated the panther was. 

“Yep,” said Neal. “Okay, I think I’m ready to go. Assuming the kitty lets me leave,” he added in an undertone. 

Neal sort of sidled down the length of the gallery, avoiding turning his back on the Temple artifacts—and, presumably, the animals—but they made it out without incident. 

Peter kept a close eye on him for the rest of the evening, but Neal seemed unconcerned about the whole thing, and didn’t report any more hallucinations. He cooked dinner—medallions of beef in a wine sauce, with mussels for a starter—and ate well before settling down to watch a movie on one of the premium channels offered on the cottage’s extensive cable package. 

While Neal was thus occupied, Peter checked the indexes of the _For Dummies_ book and the three books Sandburg had given them for any mention of panthers, wolves, invisible animals, or the Temple artifacts. The only information he found about any of it was an article in the _Guide Studies Reader_ about whether the artifacts should have been left in Peru instead of brought to Cascade. 

He slept poorly, wondering what the lack of information meant. On the one hand, at least he hadn’t found anything saying that Sentinels seeing invisible animals was a sign of incipient mental breakdown. On the other hand, there was also nothing saying it was perfectly normal. The Clinic had given them a number to call in an emergency, but hesitated to call it, unsure if this really qualified. 

Around mid-day, Sandburg called to check what time they were meeting the next morning. Peter made a quick decision. “While I have you on the phone….”

“Yeah?”

“Neal and I went to the museum yesterday. In the room with the Temple artifacts, he saw…he says he saw a panther and a wolf. There was a kid there who saw them, too. I wasn’t sure if that’s something to be concerned about.”

Sandburg sighed and muttered something that sounded like, “Fabulous.” Aloud, he said, “No, it’s not really a problem, but…you guys probably have questions.”

“A few, yeah.”

“Why don’t we meet up for dinner, and we can talk about it.”

They settled on a time and place, and Peter hung up. When consulted, Neal—who was sunning himself on the porch—shrugged and said, “I’m sure it’s fine, but okay.”

As the time for their meeting approached, though, Neal seemed increasingly nervous, a fact he denied whenever Peter asked about it. 

When they met at the restaurant, Ellison took one look at Neal and said, “I’m not even going to ask which version you heard. I’m not a king, Sandburg isn’t a priest, and neither of us is the reincarnation of an Inca deity of any kind.”

“Technically,” Sandburg said, “I’m a shaman, which is sort of like a priest, but it’s unrelated, and doesn’t mean anything unless you’re an adherent of an obscure Peruvian indigenous religion—and doesn’t mean _much_ even if you are, since I’m not a practicing shaman.”

“Good,” Neal said slowly. 

“Every September at least one of those stories spreads like wildfire through the freshman Guide Studies class,” Sandburg explained. “We think the upperclassmen start it by telling tale tales, and of course the kids are too sophisticated to fall for it until one of them goes to the museum and sees the animals—then they start wondering if the whole thing’s true.”

Neal explained the version that he had heard, finishing, “Any time a bunch of criminals start talking about museum security, someone always pipes up that they know a guy who knows a guy who was personally chased out of the Rainier Museum by wild animals.”

“We’re an actual urban legend?” Sandburg sounded impressed. “Cool.”

“I’ve also heard the one about Jim being the Sentinel King,” Neal added. 

“You didn’t mention that one,” Peter pointed out.

Neal explained, “It basically goes that the owner of the Temple artifacts is the King Sentinel, and the closest thing to an individual owner they have right now is Jim.”

“There are usually magical powers,” Ellison added. 

Neal nodded. “I heard you and Blair can control all Sentinels and Guides telepathically.”

“That’s a popular one,” Ellison agreed. “We can’t, by the way.”

“Good to know,” Neal said.

“But,” Sandburg said, “the wolf and the jaguar—it’s not a panther—are ours, and they do protect the Temple regalia. So stealing it would not be a good idea.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Neal assured him. 

“You actually have invisible animals?” Peter asked. That this was all some elaborate prank seemed more likely, somehow.

“Not just us,” Sandburg said. “I should back up. How much do you know about indigenous religion?”

“Assume we know nothing,” Peter suggested. 

“Okay,” Sandburg said. “In many indigenous American cultures—including the Chopec in Peru—everyone has an animal that gives them a spiritual connection to the rest of the world. You can call them totem animals, spirit guides, medicine animals, spirit animals—there are lots of names. A significant amount of indigenous religious practice is based on reaching an altered state where you can see or otherwise communicate with your spirit animal—vision quests, fasting, sweat lodges, psychoactive substances, stuff like that. Those practices have other functions, too, but receiving wisdom or guidance from your spirit animal is a big one. And everybody has one—it’s not special, any more than somebody who claims to have a personal relationship with Jesus is special. With me so far?”

Peter and Neal agreed that they were.

“Now, some Sentinels and Guides, and a very few mundanes, can, under some circumstances, see their spirit animals—or sometimes other people’s spirit animals—without being in an altered state. Jim and I can, and, apparently, so can Neal.”

“And Sophia,” Peter murmured.

“That’s the kid from the museum?” Sandburg asked.

“Yeah,” Neal said. “I gave her mother one of the Clinic cards; I hope that was the right thing to do.”

Sandburg nodded. “Yeah, they…well, the spirit animal issue is a tricky one for them, but they’ll be able to point her towards some resources. Or tell her to call me, anyway. It’s not something that comes up a lot,” he continued. “Seeing spirit animals, I mean. Except in the museum, which I’ll get to in a minute. If you start having recurring dreams about animals, they’re probably important, but most people go through life without ever seeing theirs when they’re awake, even if they have the ability. So don’t worry about it,” he advised.

The waitress came, and Sandburg paused in his lecture while they quickly glanced at the menus and gave their orders. “Where was I?” he said when she left.

“The artifacts,” Ellison said. 

“Oh, right.” Sandburg turned a fork over in his fingers. “We—meaning the anthropological community—aren’t sure, but we think that in the time of the Inca Empire, the artifacts did give their bearers, who were a Bonded Sentinel-Guide pair, significant political and spiritual power. The nature of that power is…disputed. Based on the Temple carvings and…present-day evidence, it’s considered likely that their owners’ spirit animals helped to protect the Temple. When we Bonded, our spirit animals started hanging out at the museum, and for some reason, people who have the ability to see spirit animals usually see them if they’re in the room with the artifacts. Nobody knows why. So it’s…a little, tiny bit true that whatever positions were associated with the regalia, we’re the closest thing in the world today.”

“Which means, essentially, nothing,” Ellison added.

“Right,” Sandburg continued. “The cultural, political, and religious contexts that gave those positions meaning no longer exist. We live in a twenty-first century secular democracy, where supreme power derives from a mandate from the masses. Invisible animals lobbing crowns at you is no basis for a system of government, any more than strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is.”

“We’re not actually the reincarnations of Arthur and Merlin, either,” Ellison put in, “although if Sandburg keeps butchering Monty Python every time he tells this story, one of these days somebody’s going to say we are.”

“More seriously,” Sandburg continued, “there are people who think that if we figured out the right rituals to perform with the artifacts, and performed them, we’d develop an array of mystical powers. I’m…well, I hesitate to say anything is impossible, but I think it’s very unlikely, though if anyone ever finds out what those rituals are, I’m going to make damn sure we don’t do them. The theory I favor—the one generally sane scholars favor—is that the artifacts were symbols of power, like any crown and scepter, not sources of it. If somebody dug up, say, Air Force One, a few millennia from now, he wouldn’t become President of the United States.”

“As far as I know,” Neal pointed out, “Air Force One isn’t haunted by the president’s spirit animal.”

“The spirit animals are…a wrinkle,” Sandburg admitted, “but like I said, in religions that believe in spirit animals, everybody has one. Ours just happen to have some sort of affinity for the Temple artifacts. Another way to put it might be that a space alien who sits down in the Throne of Saint Peter millennia after humanity has gone extinct wouldn’t become the Pope. It’s possible the Judeo-Christian God, if he exists, would have an opinion about it, but there’s no reason the aliens would or should care.”

Their food came, and Sandburg asked Neal to tell him more about the thieves’ legend surrounding the artifacts and the animals. Neal did so, explaining that there were multiple versions, including a variety of different animals. “I’ve heard wolves and panthers, but I’ve also heard just about everything else. Lions, bears, crocodiles…giant spiders.” He shrugged. 

“That happens, with urban legends,” Sandburg said. “Probably somebody who was considering stealing the artifacts really did see the spirit animals—could have been a Sentinel or Guide, or even a sensitive mundane—and their guilty conscience led them to think they saw them because they were planning the theft. And then it would have spread from there.”

Neal mentioned, casually, that he had even heard some versions where the animals killed and ate people. 

“That couldn’t happen,” Sandburg said. “Spirit animals can’t affect the physical world. I guess it’s possible—just barely—that someone who can see them could be, literally, scared to death. But nothing like that has actually happened at the museum.”

“I’ve never met anybody who admits to actually seeing the animals—or even going inside the museum and _not_ seeing them, for that matter,” Neal said. “People who tell you these stories generally say, ‘I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not dumb enough to try it and find out.’”

“Probably just as well,” Ellison said. “The security on the museum is a joke.”

Sandburg nodded. “The university keeps talking about upgrading it, but it’s expensive, and the Chopec could ask for the artifacts back any time, and they’ve been safe so far….”

“We’re pretty sure that if somebody did steal them, the animals would let us know right away.” Ellison apparently remembered that they were talking to an experienced thief, who would not be under the direct supervision of the FBI forever. “So the chances of getting away with it are…nonexistent.”

“That was my professional assessment even before I knew about the animals,” Neal agreed. 

“Good,” said Ellison. 

So, naturally, a few days later, the museum was robbed. 

#

“I didn’t do it,” Neal said. 

“Nobody’s saying you did,” Peter answered, dialing another number on his phone.

“Then why did they call you?”

Peter gave him a withering look. “Because the value of the artifacts and the fact that they were on loan from Peru makes the theft a federal offense, and _we’re the FBI._ ”

“Oh,” Neal said. In his defense, he probably would have thought of that himself if it wasn’t 5 AM and Peter hadn’t just woken him from a sound sleep by barging into his room yelling about how the Rainier museum had just been robbed and Ellison and Sandburg wanted them over there yesterday.

Into the phone, Peter gave Neal’s prisoner ID number and said, “I need his location from 10 PM last night to now.” He listened for a moment. “Thanks.”

“You said nobody thought I did it,” Neal pointed out.

“I said nobody _said_ you did it. I’m sure it’s crossed a few people’s minds, and I thought I’d take ten seconds to rule it out before anyone asks.”

Neal had to admit that was a sensible precaution.

“Go get dressed.”

As soon as Neal was dressed, they hopped in the car and drove the short distance to the museum. The first thing Neal noticed was the presence of large numbers of police officers, most of whom were standing well back while Jim methodically searched the gallery. The second was the complete absence of animals. 

Jim’s superior, Captain Banks, came over to brief Peter. “The museum security guard—who actually patrols this building and two nearby labs with valuable equipment—noticed the theft about an hour ago, and called his supervisor, who notified the PD. Jim just got here a few minutes ago himself. The security guard was occupied in the farthest lab building for longer than usual—something about some grad students who aren’t supposed to be there after midnight—so he was away from the museum from about 2 AM to a little before 4 AM.”

Neal immediately thought of several ways that, if he committed this theft, he could have arranged for the grad student distraction. The simplest was just to bribe them. 

“Alarms and security cameras?” Peter asked.

“The alarms weren’t activated. Security footage is still being reviewed.”

“What about the….” Neal trailed off, not wanting to say _invisible animals_ out loud. But Captain Banks didn’t appear to catch on—maybe he didn’t know about them? “You know, I’ll ask Blair about that,” he said quickly. 

Banks warned them to stay out of Jim’s way until he was finished and went to talk to another group of cops. 

“The what?” Peter asked when he was gone. He whispered, “The animals?”

“They’re not here,” Neal said. 

“Maybe they’re never here when Sandburg and Ellison are,” Peter suggested.

“Maybe. But if Jim didn’t know about this until after the guard called the police….” Neal wasn’t sure what he was suggesting, exactly. 

“Whoever did this disabled not only the real security, but the…other stuff,” Peter finished. 

“You know,” Neal said. “Since I’m the one who can see them, I’m pretty sure this makes you Scully.”

Peter shook his head, and went to talk to some of the cops. 

As Jim finished up his search and went to talk to Banks, Blair came over to Neal. “So do you, um…” He gestured. 

“I don’t see them.”

“Neither do we. No visions, either. This is weird. They’re usually either with us or here.” 

Banks spoke to Peter, who beckoned Neal over to them. 

“Listen, don’t mention the animals to anyone else right now…Simon knows about them, but he’s kind of in denial. We’ll…be calling another meeting about that side of things later.”

Neal agreed, and they both joined Peter, Jim, Banks, and a few other members of the Cascade PD. 

One of the other detectives began, “Preliminary review of the security cameras shows that the power to the building was cut at around 2:15 AM. It came back on around 3:30. The building’s alarm system should have automatically called the police when the power went out, unless the phone line was disconnected first. That, too, is currently on, but we haven’t been able to find out if it was disconnected.”

Jim picked up the thread. “Access to this gallery was gained through the main entrance, around 2:30. Egress, the same way, about fifteen minutes later. The display cases were picked and re-locked. “

That was fast, even given the relatively low grade of locks on the cases.

Jim continued, “The items were removed by a single individual, a female Guide.” 

Oh, shit. 

The idea seemed to occur to Peter only seconds after it occurred to him. “Neal?”

“I haven’t been in touch with her,” he said quickly. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“You’d better not,” Peter said. To the rest of the group, he explained, “Neal’s former Guide, Kate Moreau, has previously expressed interest in stealing the artifacts. And she’s believed to have been involved in several museum thefts in the past. I’ll find out what the Bureau knows about her recent movements.”

“It could have been someone else,” Sandburg suggested, giving Neal a sympathetic look. 

That was true. Just because Neal didn’t know any other museum-thief Guides didn’t mean there weren’t any. And this job wouldn’t necessarily require an experienced professional. 

Jim continued, “The next step is to back-trail the thief and find where she gained access to the building and where she left.”

“Has anybody been wandering around?” Blair asked. 

“Just the security guard,” Banks said. “He went to check the rest of the exhibits after he discovered the theft. And Michaelson and Drake were in the security office looking at the monitors.”

“Good,” Blair said. “Getting through the lobby might be tricky, since all these people have been standing around for the last half-hour or so, but after that, it should be OK. Let’s have everybody….” He trailed off.

“Why don’t I clear the west gallery, and then everybody can wait in there,” Jim suggested. 

Banks agreed, and they dispersed. 

Neal had to get into the east gallery. If Kate _had_ been in there, he’d be able to identify her scent, he was sure. He briefly considered telling Peter just that—but it wasn’t like he or the locals would _believe_ Neal if he said she hadn’t been there. And if she _had_ , he wasn’t going to tell them. Once they were all corralled in the west gallery while the Jim and Blair show took over the rest of the building, he’d have to sneak across the whole lobby to enter the east gallery, so his best bet was to slip in there now. 

Except that both Peter and Captain Banks had just been given reason to be suspicious of him, and were keeping a close eye. He was going to need a distraction.

To one side, Neal heard two rookie cops complaining about the FBI barging in on their crime scene before the locals even had a chance. 

Perfect.

#

Peter didn’t know what to do about Neal. First, obviously, if Kate couldn’t be ruled out—or, even worse, if she had done it—Neal couldn’t work this case. But more than that, Peter had no idea how Neal was taking it, personally. Was he offended that his girlfriend was a suspect? It wasn’t exactly an unfounded suspicion, but having his current Guide identify his former one as prime suspect in a major case couldn’t be easy. If she had done it, would Neal be…pleased? Worried for her? Angry that she’d gone ahead with a job he had decided was too dangerous? Peter couldn’t begin to guess. 

He was still trying to figure out how to broach the subject with Neal when Captain Banks came over. “Agent Burke. A few of my people have pointed out that you don’t exactly have jurisdiction here.”

“Do you want us to go?” Normally, he’d have argued the point—this _was_ a federal case—but given the situation with Neal, it might be for the best. The FBI would be brought back in eventually, but maybe by then they’d have a clearer idea of whether Kate was a factor or not. 

“No. The Peruvians are going to want the FBI in on the investigation anyway, so there’s no reason to kick you out now and bring you back in this afternoon. But I’m going to get on the phone with my superiors to start making your presence official, and you might want to do the same.”

Peter had to agree. Fortunately, it was almost a sane hour on the east coast; there would be people in the office in both New York and DC. He decided to call New York first. 

The museum lobby was growing crowded—another group of uniformed officers had shown up, even though there didn’t seem to be anything for them to do just yet—and Neal seemed to want to avoid being trapped in the middle of the group. As he edged toward the margins, Peter had to keep up with him, brief Hughes, and avoid bumping into anyone. 

“Yes, sir, it is quite a coincidence. I checked his tracking--” Peter’s hand shot out to grab Neal by the collar as he realized exactly where his wanderings were taking him. “NO. Not you, sir.”

“What?” Neal said, looking excessively innocent.

Peter shook his head and dragged Neal to a less tempting spot, as he explained the Kate situation to Hughes. “So we don’t know if it was her or not.”

“Couldn’t Caffrey…no, that’s not a good idea, is it,” Hughes said, realizing the obvious problem. Neal was certainly good enough at scent discrimination by now to tell if the person who had spent fifteen minutes in an otherwise deserted gallery less than a couple of hours ago was his ex-girlfriend or not—but whatever he said on the subject, they couldn’t trust it, so why put Neal in that position in the first place?

“Yeah, the best thing is probably to have scent articles sent for the local Sentinel to verify,” Peter said. The Bureau kept scent samples on file, along with fingerprints and DNA. Unlike prints, they couldn’t be emailed or faxed, so it would be at least tomorrow afternoon before they arrived, but there was no helping that. 

They made a few more arrangements, Hughes officially put him on the case, and they hung up. After pocketing his phone, Peter dragged Neal into the coat check area, where he finally let go of him. “Look. I know you want to go in there and find out if Kate did this or not. But if I let you, I’m going to have to ask you what you found out. And if it was her, you’re going to have to lie to me, and there are all kinds of ways that can go wrong for me, for the case, and for you. You’re going to have to wait to find out the same time the rest of us do.”

Neal started to protest, but apparently couldn’t think of any reasonable counter-arguments; after opening and closing his mouth a few times, he just pouted.

Before he could really get into it, Banks announced that Ellison had cleared the west gallery, so they should all move over there. Peter secured them a spot near the lobby entrance. “Let’s watch how they do this, okay?” He and Neal hadn’t learned any tracking yet—according to Ketner, it was just scent discrimination while walking—but they might as well see if they could learn something.

Sandburg and Ellison started at the entrance to the east gallery, and linked up. They held hands to do it, Peter noted. Other than that, there wasn’t much to see. Sandburg talked constantly, but his voice was pitched for Sentinel ears, and Peter couldn’t make out a single word. They had to stop and circle around at one point; it looked like Ellison had lost the trail. “That’s where the guy with the coffee was,” Neal murmured. Right; Banks had tossed a rookie uniform and his coffee out in the rain shortly after they arrived. Even Peter knew better than to bring something like that into a building where a Sentinel was doing scent-work. 

There was a service door between the entrances to the art and natural history galleries; the trail led Ellison and Sandburg there. Once they were through the door, the police burst into action, Banks ordering various teams to begin collecting the physical evidence, dust for prints, guard the front doors before the press got there, and half a dozen other things. Peter and Neal were left mostly alone in the art gallery. There wouldn’t be much for them to do until Ellison and Sandburg returned with the rest of their report.

Peter led Neal over to a bench and sat down. “You okay?”

Neal looked startled, rather than faux-innocent. “I haven’t been doing anything.”

“I know. I mean—the Kate thing. If she did this, Ellison’s going to catch her.”

“I know. I don’t think she’d be that stupid.”

“If she knows you’re here—she may think you’ll find a way to cover for her.” Peter wasn’t convinced Neal wouldn’t, given a chance.

Neal nodded. “Yeah. She might think that.”

“You can’t, you know. You do something like that, you’re back inside.”

“I _know_. She left me, remember? I’m not an idiot.”

“She left you once before,” Peter pointed out. Neal had pursued her around the world, had walked knowingly into a trap to see her again. Was Kate banking that he’d do it again? 

“Yeah, well. I’m older and wiser now.” Neal put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. “We want different things out of life. We probably always did.”

“What did she want?”

“I don’t know. We never talked about it. Money. Power. Sex. The usuals.”

“And you don’t want those things?” That seemed unlikely. 

“Oh, I do. Just…I don’t know. They’re not what’s important.”

Before Peter could ask what _was_ important—or decide if that was too personal a question to ask—Sandburg and Ellison came into the gallery, followed by Banks and the other senior Cascade detectives. Banks spread out a plan of the museum on top of a display case, and they gathered around.

“After leaving the gallery, the perp went here, to the electrical systems closet.” Ellison pointed on the plan. “Presumably to flip the circuit breaker back on. The phone line was connected and disconnected elsewhere; we haven’t found where yet. Then she took this back staircase, which is inaccessible to the public and not covered by security cameras, up to the assistant curator of geology’s office, on the third floor, and went out the window.”

Sandburg added, “None of the three dormer windows along the north side of the building are alarmed—they’re all tiny, and forty feet from the ground.”

“How did she get down?” Banks asked.

“We’re not sure,” Ellison said. “We ruled out rappelling hook.”

Neal could probably give them a few ideas, Peter thought. 

“We’ll have to search outside for signs of where she went, but if she got in a car or went into a crowd, we’ll lose the trail,” Ellison added. 

“How did she get _in_?” one of the other detectives asked.

“We tracked her back to the staff ladies’ room on the second floor,” Ellison answered. “With a stop in the electrical closet on the way to the gallery. No windows, and I couldn’t pick up a scent leading inside.”

“She probably went in there when the museum was still open,” Neal volunteered. “Wouldn’t work at the Louvre, but here?” He shrugged. 

“Could be,” Ellison agreed. “The bathroom has one of those things that sprays air freshener every twenty minutes; I couldn’t smell much of anything else. She could have been there for hours.”

“How hard is it to get into the staff areas when the museum is open?” Banks wondered.

“Not very,” Sandburg said. “The door locks, but the student workers don’t have keys, so they leave it propped open if they’re going in and out. They aren’t really supposed to, but they do it anyway.”

“It’s not much of a lock, either,” Neal said. “Go in there, perch on a toilet seat while the staff makes the pre-closing sweep, and if she got caught after closing but before the robbery, she could claim she was in there having female troubles when the place closed and was afraid she’d set off an alarm if she came out.”

“Female troubles?” the one female detective in the group said scornfully.

“You saw the security guard,” Neal pointed out. “Do you think he’d ask a follow-up question?”

“Probably not,” she admitted. 

If it was Kate, Peter thought, she could have pulled it off—she’d have looked embarrassed and said something like, ‘Don’t you have those red line things like in _Mission: Impossible_? I was scared to death I’d be arrested!’ Kate Moreau was smart as hell, but did a very good airhead. 

“Any ideas on how she got out?” Ellison asked.

Neal considered for a moment. “Did she close the window behind her?”

“Closed, but not latched,” Ellison said. 

“Then I’d have stood on the windowsill and climbed up on the roof. From there, there are plenty of options.” He bent over the plans. “There’s a tree you could climb down here, or the drainpipe here…or jump down onto the north gallery roof; from there, you’re only twenty feet up; you could jump that.”

“The outside search would take hours,” Sandburg said. “Dogs?”

“Dogs,” Ellison agreed. “I’ll follow up if they find me a starting point.”

Banks started giving out assignments, starting with telling Ellison and Sandburg to find where the phone line had been disconnected. As the others left for their next tasks, he said to Peter, “I can’t give you orders, of course, but it would help if you’d--”

“Wait a second,” Peter said. Neal had his ‘you’re missing something, and I don’t know if I want to tell you about it yet’ expression on. “What’s up, Neal?”

With a wince that probably only Peter could see, he turned to Banks and said, “Have you sent anybody to talk to those grad students yet?”

“You think they’re involved?” Peter was skeptical; it seemed like Neal might be clutching at straws to offer a suspect other than Kate.

“Probably not, but the timing sounds like the thief planned on the guard being away a little longer than usual,” Neal answered. “If it were me, I would have arranged for that to happen.”

“Arranged how?” Banks asked.

Neal shrugged. “I don’t know; what kind of lab was it?”

“The guard didn’t say.” Banks shook his head. “I’ll put a team on it. Agent Burke, I was going to suggest that you review the security footage from yesterday. If…” He glanced at Neal. “An individual known to the FBI entered the building during normal operating hours, you’d be able to identify her.”

Peter nodded. He was unenthusiastic about the prospect, for several reasons, but it was slightly better than either asking Neal to identify Kate by scent or waiting for the scent samples to arrive from DC. 

They went to the security office, where the day guard showed them how to review the recordings. “This one’s the camera on the front door,” he said. “Probably the best one to check; everybody passes by that one.”

Peter agreed. “Let’s start with closing time and work backward—as small as this place is, someone probably would have noticed if she’d been hanging around all day.”

“Some of the students do,” the guard disagreed. “They come in with their laptops and sit in the galleries and study. We have WiFi, and it’s quieter than the library.”

And Kate could pass for a college student, if she wore jeans and carried a backpack. “Did you notice anyone here all day yesterday that you haven’t seen before?” 

“Can’t say I did, but I don’t pay that much attention to the kids, unless they’re making trouble.”

And Kate could easily have spent days pretending to study before the robbery. Neal was meticulous about groundwork; she could have learned that from him.

Still, he had to start somewhere, so Peter decided to start with the end of the day anyway. Neal sat next to him, quiet and brooding, as Peter rewound through hours of footage, pausing whenever a woman came through the doors. 

As he worked, the museum started waking up. Banks had declared that it would be closed to the public that day, but the museum staff still reported for work. Many of them came by the security office to talk to the guard. 

“I heard about what happened,” one woman said. “Such a shock.”

“Hard to believe,” the guard agreed.

“With the police everywhere, I’m sure they’ll catch whoever did it. Say, I bet you’re glad it didn’t happen on your watch!”

“Yeah—poor Joe’s probably in hot water right now. But it’s his job to check the labs, too, at night.”

“Such a shame.”

After hearing roughly the same conversation three or four times, Peter was glad to see that the next visitor was Sandburg, and even gladder to see that he came bearing coffee and bagels. 

“Here,” he said, putting them on the desk. “The museum staff sent some student workers out to gather supplies for the troops. Find anything yet?”

Peter shook his head. “No, and I’m hoping I don’t. You?”

“Phone line was disconnected from outside, by a male mundane, who arrived and departed in a car, separately from the Guide. No prints anywhere, which is not exactly a huge surprise.”

After sipping at his coffee, Neal said, “What about the…?”

“Not back yet,” Sandburg said. “I’m starting to worry.”

“You think the thief could have hurt them?” Neal asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone who isn’t a shaman could.”

“That would rule out Kate,” Neal said. 

“The mundane could have been one,” Sandburg said. “But yeah, it seems unlikely.”

Peter said, “According to Neal, Kate theorized that the…spirit animals…wouldn’t bother her because she’s a Guide.”

Sandburg shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. The cat _might_ hesitate, but not the wolf. And if it happened that way, they’d still be here.”

“Um,” said Neal. 

They both turned to look at him. 

“I just had a thought, and maybe it doesn’t work this way, either, but…would they leave the artifacts if they had to protect something more important?”

“Maybe,” Sandburg said. “But I don’t know what--”

“ _Sophia_ ,” Peter said. 

#

Blair’s reaction, and Jim’s when they caught up with him and told him what they had just thought of, let Neal know that he was onto something. He was sure that the ‘doggie’ and ‘kitty’ would forget the Temple artifacts even existed if they got the slightest hint that Sophia was in danger. Their human counterparts had, after all. 

Fortunately, Sophia’s mother had called the Clinic on Monday, as Neal suggested, and they were able to give Blair her address. He and Jim sprinted for the truck, calling to Neal and Peter to follow them, since Sophia and her mother at least knew them.

As Peter drove, Neal said, “If Kate’s involved, she wouldn’t hurt Sophia.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Peter, or himself. Because he did think that Kate probably had stolen the artifacts—the plan had her written all over it. 

Except for how the animals had been gotten out of the way. Kate would have…befriended them, like Sophia had, or else learned that they couldn’t ‘affect the physical world’ and walked past them with her head held high. 

Right? 

Peter just said, “Let’s hope not.”

Peter parked the rental car behind Jim’s truck, outside a small bungalow-style house. When he opened the car door, Neal heard Sophia’s voice. “—climb up like this,” she said. “And then you slide down on your bottom, like this!”

All four of them ran around the side of the house, Neal not sparing a moment’s thought for his Italian leather loafers and the damp grass. Sophia was playing on a swing set, safe and happy….

And watched over carefully by the wolf and jaguar. The wolf frolicked around the slide, wagging his tail, while the cat lay _couchant_ on the grass a few yards away. “Oh, thank God,” Neal said. 

“Mr. Neal!” Sophia jumped off the slide and ran over to him, the wolf bounding after her. “Look, Doggie and Kitty came over to play!”

“They sure did,” Neal said. “Are you guys having fun?”

“Uh-huh. Doggie won’t go down the slide, though. My friend Isaac’s dog goes down the slide at his house.”

“They’re here?” Peter whispered.

“Yeah,” Neal whispered back. Blair was walking toward the jaguar, which slowly stood and stretched as he approached. 

Jim said, to no one in particular, “I’ll go talk to the mother.” The wolf jumped up, planting its massive forepaws on his chest for a second, and licked his face, then bounded back to Sophia. 

Peter said, “Maybe I should….”

Jim nodded. “Good idea.”

“You okay, Neal?” Peter asked.

“Fine.” Neal started to go over to Blair—with him right there, Neal figured he was probably safe from the cat—but the wolf circled around in front of him, herding him back toward Sophia. 

When Neal was back at her side, the wolf sat and barked, his meaning somehow clear: _You stay there and watch the kid!_

“So, um, how long have Doggie and Kitty been visiting?”

“They came over while I was asleep. Do you want to see my racecar?” She ran over to a sandbox on the other side of the yard, followed by Neal and the wolf. 

Neal duly admired the racecar—a green Bugatti; shame it was only two inches long—and several other toys, trying to think what other questions he should ask. If she _had_ been in any danger, she didn’t seem to know it, and Neal didn’t want to put the idea in her head. 

Sophia was still showing him toys when Amanda came to the back door. “Sophia? Come inside now, please.” Her voice was carefully level. “Your…friends can come in, too.”

Neal wasn’t completely sure if she meant him and Blair or the animals, but Sophia seemed to take it to mean all four of them, so they all went inside. Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, while Jim leaned against the counter. 

Sophia grabbed Neal’s hand and started talking about the additional toys he could see now that they were inside, but Amanda said, “Play in the living room for a few minutes, honey, so the grown-ups can talk.”

Sophia grumbled a little, but finally went, the wolf accompanying her. The jaguar settled down in the archway between the kitchen and living room, keeping a careful watch on both rooms. Amanda invited Neal and Blair to sit. “Do you want coffee? I can start a pot.”

They all said they were fine, thanks.

“What about the…” She looked toward the living room. “Do they need water or anything?”

“They don’t eat,” Blair said. 

After looking into the living room to make sure Sophia was distracted, Amanda sat down at the table with them. “In the middle of the night last night, Sophia started screaming. I thought she was having a nightmare—I went in, and she said there was a man outside her window with a knife. Of course I looked out the window, but I didn’t see anything, so I thought it was a nightmare, or she imagined it. She’s imaginative—not just the ‘doggie,’ she’s always playing make-believe. So I calmed her down, and once she went back to sleep, I checked that all the doors were locked, then went back to bed.”

“Did you happen to look at the clock while you were up?” Blair asked.

“It was a little before two when I went back to bed,” Amanda said. “I’m not sure how long I was up—maybe half an hour?”

Blair nodded. “Did she mention the animals then?”

“No, she started talking about them when she woke up this morning.”

“She told me they came while she was asleep,” Neal offered. 

“I don’t know if she remembers the…nightmare, or whatever it was,” Amanda said. “She hasn’t said anything about it. Maybe it’s just not as exciting as having her…friends over. Was there really a man with a knife?”

Blair and Jim exchanged glances. “We think there might have been,” Blair said. 

“Detective Ellison said this might be connected to the museum being robbed last night. I don’t understand how.”

Everybody looked at Neal. “It’s your theory,” Blair said. 

“The, uh, the wolf and the jaguar usually protect the artifacts from the Temple of the Sentinels, at the museum,” Neal explained. “I don’t really understand that part; you’d have to ask Blair. But they weren’t doing that last night.” He wasn’t sure how to explain the next part. Was there any way to say, ‘I think the thief decided to threaten your daughter so the invisible animals would come rescue her and leave the treasure un-guarded’ that didn’t sound both heartless and insane?

Peter said, “We think the thief drew the guard—the real, human guard—away from the building by making him think he was needed elsewhere. And Sophia was the one thing we could think of that the animals might want to protect even more than the artifacts.”

Like that, apparently. 

Jim added, “It’s possible that the person never intended to really hurt her, and in any case, they shouldn’t have any reason to come here again, but we’ll post some people outside to make sure.”

“Thank you. What about the….” She looked toward the living room again.

“We don’t control them,” Jim said. “I don’t know how long they plan to stay.”

“We might—I might—be able to influence them,” Blair added. “Were you, uh, hoping they’d go, or stay?”

“I’m not really sure,” Amanda admitted. “If Sophia’s in danger and they can protect her, then I hope they stay,” she decided. “But I’m a little nervous about having wild animals in the house, even wild animals that I can’t see.”

“They’re not real animals,” Blair said. “They’re more like…guardian angels.”

Neal very carefully did not react to that statement. If the cat was an angel, it was the kind with a flaming sword.

Amanda nodded, apparently finding that way of thinking about the situation a little more acceptable. “Okay. This is all…I mean, I’ve only known Sophia is a Guide for a few days; we haven’t even had our appointment at the Clinic yet.”

“It’s not usually this exciting,” Blair said. “You’re handling it very well.”

“Thanks.” She gave Peter a slightly embarrassed look. “I have to ask. Does the FBI really investigate…this sort of thing?”

“No,” Peter said. “There are no X-Files. We’re here because we’re museum theft experts.”

“Of course. Right.” Amanda looked a little disappointed. Neal briefly considered pointing out that if the FBI did have a secret paranormal investigation team, they’d hardly admit it to anyone who asked, but decided not to introduce that unnecessary complication into the situation. 

Jim straightened up off the counter. “I’ll have a look around outside.”

Blair got up to go with him, and Peter started to say something about getting out of her way, but Amanda said, “Let me just make some coffee. It’s no trouble.”

Peter, apparently realizing as Neal did that she didn’t want to be left alone with her daughter, the invisible animals, and her fears just yet, sat back down. “That would be great. We’ve been up since five.”

The coffee was still brewing when Sophia came into the kitchen, hopping over the jaguar in the doorway. “Are the grownups done talking yet? I want to show Mr. Neal my other doggie and kitty.”

“Yes, sweetie, go get them.”

The other doggie and kitty proved to be stuffed, fortunately. After Neal exclaimed over them, a parade of other stuffed animals were brought out for his inspection, followed by dolls, dinosaurs, more cars, puzzles, and a pair of big-girl shoes with laces. Neal quickly ran out of new things to say about them, but Sophia didn’t seem to mind if he repeated himself. 

Fortunately, before he was reduced to admiring every pair of socks Sophia owned, Blair stuck his head in the back door. “We’re ready to head out,” he said. “There’s a police car on its way. Do you want them right out front or down the block?”

“Oh,” Amanda said. “I don’t know. I guess out front. Do you and Detective Ellison want some coffee to take with you?”

“We’re okay. You could offer the uniformed officers some, though; I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

“Okay.”

“We should be going, too,” Peter said. He took out one of his cards. “Just in case you need to reach us.”

“Thank you. Sophia, say bye-bye to Mr. Peter and Mr. Neal.”

Sophia, who was returning with another armful of toys, dropped them all and ran over to the table, yelling, “Wait a minute!” She climbed up onto a chair and examined the array of previously-displayed toys. Finally, she selected a racecar and presented it to Neal. “Here, you can have this one.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t that one of your favorites?” 

“It’s only my third favorite.”

“You’re sure you won’t miss it?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right. Thank you.” Sophia had enough toys to open her own store; she probably wouldn’t miss this one.

They met up with Jim and Blair by the vehicles. “There was a man,” Jim said. “Mundane, not the same one that disconnected the phone line. We have a blurry footprint in the flower bed, no other physical evidence.”

“And nothing to connect the incident to the robbery, other than the animals,” Blair added. 

“Is your Captain going to be willing to keep a guard on the house when you can’t prove it was connected?” Neal asked. Maybe he ought to stay. If Peter would go for it. There wasn’t anything he could do at the museum, anyway.

“Not for long, but we’ll put something else in place by this evening,” Blair said. 

“Okay. Let us know if you need us here,” Peter said. “In the meantime, we’d better finish with those security tapes.”

#

“Stop. Go back.”

They were back at the museum, almost finished reviewing the security footage from the day before. Neal was next to him, and facing the monitor, but Peter hadn’t been sure whether he was really looking at it or not until he spoke. 

“Where?” Peter asked, reversing the playback. 

“Blonde with the green backpack. There.”

Peter paused the video. “Damn it.” There was Kate, entering the museum at—he checked the timestamp—10:23 AM. She had dyed her hair—blonde, with slightly-darker-blonde roots—and was dressed up as a student in jeans and a Rainier sweatshirt. 

Neal folded his arms around himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. 

“For what?”

“That this happened.” That Kate was going to be caught, and that people Neal liked, including Peter himself, were going to be involved. 

“I don’t care. I mean—thanks. But I’m not upset. She’s not…not part of my life anymore.”

“Still.”

“Yeah.” Neal sighed. “Still.” He shook his head. “She’s working with whoever went after Sophia. I’m okay with her getting caught. Really.”

Peter nodded. “Okay. There’s…another question that’s going to come up.” He didn’t want to say it, but he had to. “She, and her accomplices, knew a lot about the museum’s security. Things you learned a few days ago.”

“I haven’t been in touch with her.”

“Have you been in touch with _anyone_?”

Neal looked away. “Yeah. I told…a friend of mine, that the animals are real and that they can’t attack people, but they’d alert Jim and Blair if anybody tried to steal the artifacts. I didn’t mention Sophia, and he wouldn’t have any part of hurting a kid, anyway.”

Neal had said the same thing about Kate, Peter recalled, and he’d been wrong. “Why did do that? Why are you talking to criminals about museum security at all?”

“He’s not a—well, yeah, he’s a criminal. But he likes…conspiracy stuff. I thought he’d be interested. He was the one who convinced me and Kate that stealing the artifacts would be suicidally stupid even without the animals. Factor them in, and there’s even less reason to do it. It was just, you know, an interesting story.” Neal shook his head. “Anyway, Blair said he explains about the animals to the freshman Guide Studies kids every September. It’s not a secret.”

He had a point. It wasn’t classified information that Neal had obtained in his capacity as an FBI consultant. “We have to tell Sandburg and Ellison about this. And that,” he added, pointing at the monitor screen. 

During the course of the day, the Cascade PD had set up an incident center in the museum’s conference room. They found Sandburg and Ellison there. “Kate was here,” Peter said. 

Sandburg swore. “You okay, man?” he asked Neal.

Neal nodded grimly. “Yes.”

Peter went on to explain his questions about how Kate had learned about the museum’s security, and what Neal had admitted. 

Sandburg winced. “Half the campus knows at least something about the animals. If she put together the campus rumors with the rumors Neal told us about the other day, that could add up to enough to plan the robbery.”

“Except for Sophia.” They all turned to look at Ellison. He was watching Neal closely, his expression intent. “Whoever did this knew exactly what to do to distract them.”

“I didn’t tell anyone about Sophia,” Neal said. “Except the two of you. Nobody got that from me.”

Peter believed him. The surprise was that Ellison seemed to, too. He relaxed, saying, “Okay.”

“Somebody else could have figured it out the same way Neal did,” Peter suggested. “Sophia comes to visit the animals almost every Saturday.”

Neal nodded quickly. “If you see them with her, it’s not a difficult leap to make.”

Ellison filled them in on what they and the rest of the PD had figured out since they last talked. The sniffer dogs had found where Kate came down off the roof, and Ellison had confirmed that the trail ended with her getting in a car. An equipment malfunction—or possibly tampering—had destroyed a crucial experiment, leading the grad students responsible for it to stay late in order to get their work back on track. Neither the artifacts nor Kate Moreau had been seen boarding any planes, trains, buses, or commercial boats out of Cascade, and most of the security footage from the short period between the theft and when the PD began monitoring those points had been reviewed. 

“The Guide Studies kids have decided to set up a 24-hour guard on the museum until we catch the culprit,” Ellison said. “It’s completely pointless, but--”

“But they’re scared and angry, not to mention a little bit excited about all the drama,” Sandburg said, “and they need to feel like they’re doing something. It won’t do any harm.”

“And it keeps them out of the way while we quietly put the people who actually know what they’re doing on Sophia’s house,” Ellison finished. 

Sandburg nodded. “You guys can take a shift if you want to, but we’ve got plenty of people—retired cops, some of the Guide Studies faculty, and a few older students with military or law-enforcement experience.” 

“Now that we have a recent picture of…one of the perpetrators, we’ll start circulating that,” Ellison added. “And we can have somebody else review the rest of the security footage.”

Peter nodded. “Good.”

“What’s next for you?” Sandburg asked.

“I have to make some calls to DC, then we should be heading over to the Clinic,” Peter said. Neal looked surprised, like he thought they’d be skipping it, but the Clinic wasn’t any less important than the case. 

“Okay. Did you guys eat? There’s sandwiches and stuff across the hall; you should have something.”

Peter ate a sandwich, and made sure Neal did too, while making his calls. The FBI already had alerts out for Kate, but they would step up into an active search now that they knew she was definitely present at the time of the crime. The Bureau was also pulling records from Neal’s cell phone, the motel, and the phone at the cottage. Peter was relieved, but not particularly surprised, to find that they had found nothing particularly suspicious—if they had, they would have called him right away. 

There was one detail he had to check with Neal. Catching his attention, he recited the burner-phone number the tech had just reported Neal had made three calls to since arriving in Cascade. “That’s the friend you told me about?”

Neal winced. “Yes.”

“Yeah, I knew about that,” he told the tech. “Where was the phone when the calls were received? Manhattan?”

“We haven’t checked that yet, sir. Should we?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I don’t need a specific cell tower; as long as it was on the east coast, it’s fine.” After hanging up, he told Neal, “I know you don’t think he’s involved, but we have to check.” If it _did_ turn out that the phone was anywhere near Cascade, he’d have to press Neal for more details about the mysterious friend, but he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. 

“I know.” 

On that note, they went over to the Clinic, where their first appointment of the day was with Tim. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked as they were sitting down.

“Tired,” Neal said. “You know about the museum robbery?”

“Yes, I think the whole campus has heard by now.”

“We’ve been working on that. Not sensory stuff,” Neal added quickly. “Just a long day.”

Peter waited to see if Neal was going to say anything about Kate. He didn’t. Peter was about to, but then Tim asked how _he_ was feeling, and he knew from experience that explaining how Neal _ought_ to be feeling was not an acceptable answer to that question. “Not surprised,” he answered. “I knew something like this was going to happen.”

“I really didn’t do it, Peter,” Neal said. 

“I know. I didn’t mean that.”

“What did you mean?” Tim asked.

“Things have been going too well for the last few days.” Peter was learning how to be a Guide, Neal was making a lot of progress in his sense work, and they were both doing better with the communication thing. The case—the old case, the warehouse full of art—was humming along productively in the background. The cottage was perfect. Elizabeth was thinking she’d be able to come out the week after next. Everything was a little too perfect. “It was about time for something else to go horribly wrong.” 

“I see,” Tim said. “And the museum theft is something going horribly wrong? Isn’t something like this a fairly routine part of your job?”

“Usually I’m not investigating my partner’s ex-girlfriend,” Peter answered. “It—this isn’t public knowledge at this stage in the investigation, you know—but it was Kate.”

“Oh,” Tim said. “Is that certain?”

“We confirmed it a little while ago. Confirmed that she was in the museum yesterday,” Peter corrected himself. “But we’ve known since early this morning that the thief was a female Guide, so we had our suspicions. It’s...extremely unlikely that she was in Cascade on unrelated business and some other female Guide robbed the place on the same day.” 

“She did it,” Neal said. 

“We haven’t really talked about Kate yet,” Tim observed. “This might be a good time.”

Neal laughed mirthlessly. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

“For starters, how do you feel about your current Guide investigating your former one?”

“I don’t care. She deserves to be caught.”

Tim nodded.

“And she wasn’t every my Guide the way you mean it. She was my girlfriend. She liked that I was a Sentinel, but she never…never _did_ anything about it. And she did know something about it—she was working as Guide and personal assistant to this…business guy…when we met. This guy, he was UnRegistered, but he would have found a way to get a qualified Guide. She must have had some idea there were things she could do to stop my senses from going crazy on me, and she couldn’t be bothered.”

That was a pretty bleak picture of what had, in the FBI files, looked like a storybook romance. 

“I think I figured out why she left me,” Neal continued. “I always figured we’d keep doing crime until…until we had enough money, or it wasn’t fun anymore, something like that. Then we’d settle down somewhere and have a real life. Jobs, kids, all that. You know how every once in a while the news will run a story about some small-town pillar of the community who turns out to have been a bank robber thirty or forty years ago? I always thought that would be us.”

“Did you discuss that with Kate?” Tim asked.

“Yeah. No, not really. We’d talk about it sometimes, and Kate would just laugh and say I’d never give up the life. I figured she’d see things my way eventually; I guess she thought the same thing. Then I went to prison for four years, which is pretty much the definition of ‘not fun anymore,’ as far as I’m concerned. You know I could have broken out any time,” he said to Peter. 

“Yeah.” How quickly he had managed his escape when he finally had a reason proved that.

“I stuck around because I didn’t want to be a fugitive the rest of my life. I told her that, and that she should just live quietly on what we had until I got out. When we got into the last year of my sentence, we started talking about what we were going to do when I got out. She had all these ideas for cons we could run—some little ones to get our feet wet, then some really ambitious jobs. I said I wasn’t doing that anymore, she’d laugh, we’d talk about something else. Then I told her I wanted her to start working on laundering all our assets and setting up some clean aliases, with checkable employment histories, college degrees, the whole bit—whatever we’d need to get the jobs we wanted. Hopefully, after we found work, we’d have enough left to put a down payment on a house. She…looked at me like she was waiting for the punch line, and three weeks later, she said goodbye.” 

Peter hadn’t known that—he’d assumed that Neal planned all along to return to his old ways when he got out of prison. He couldn’t help thinking about how different his own life would be if it had worked out that way. He’d still be in the closet as an UnRegistered Guide. He wouldn’t have Neal. He wouldn’t know what he was missing.

Neal shook his head. “I didn’t put it together until—today, really. It sounds really obvious when I explain it like that, but my—our other friend was doing most of the legwork on the plan, so he was writing me letters about how it was all coming along, and she visited two other times—called and wrote, too—and didn’t say anything. I’d ask about the plan, and she’d just say, ‘Let’s not talk about it here.’ She could’ve—I mean, I know wanting different things is a problem people have, in relationships, and maybe there wasn’t any way we could’ve worked it out. You can’t exactly compromise on whether to be criminals or not; it’s not like we could have just agreed to embezzle from the PTA or whatever. But what I don’t get is why she couldn’t have waited four more months and ended it _after_ I was out of prison.”

“It is difficult to understand a Guide abandoning a Sentinel under those circumstances,” Tim said. 

“Happens with cons and their girlfriends all the time—usually because the girl has a new man, and she could keep them both on the string as long as one was in the joint. But yeah. There were a few weeks she didn’t get in to visit, either because we were on lockdown or something came up for her—which should’ve been a red flag, too, that that happened more than once—and things got pretty rough for me. She had to know there was no way I’d last four months, but that wasn’t her problem anymore.”

Neal’s stated position that he didn’t care about Kate getting caught was beginning to look more and more like a rational response to the situation. Peter was positively looking forward to putting her in prison. 

“I escaped and went to our apartment—I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, but she wouldn’t come back to see me, wouldn’t take my calls. I figured if I saw her, everything would be okay somehow.” He shrugged. “She wasn’t there. Peter was. I asked him to come see me in prison, and he came. So this case means I have to choose. I’d have to be pretty stupid to pick her again.”

Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about that—it wasn’t like he had gone to Kate’s apartment for Neal’s benefit; he was there to arrest him. 

“So you see it as a choice between Kate and Peter?” Tim asked. 

Neal nodded. “What else would it be a choice between?”

“Right and wrong?” Peter suggested.

“Oh, _that_.” Neal shrugged again. “Going after Sophia, that was wrong.”

“The child from the museum? How does she come into this?”

They had told Tim about Neal seeing the spirit animals; Tim couldn’t see them himself, but told them he knew others who could. Apart from that, he hadn’t had much to say about them. Peter explained, “Someone threatened her to lure the animals away from the museum while the robbery was going on. She wasn’t hurt, or even seriously frightened, as far as we could tell.”

“Still wrong,” Neal said. 

“No argument here,” Peter said. 

“How does it feel, knowing that someone you were close to has done something you consider morally repugnant?” Tim asked.

“Like I never knew her at all.”

#

Neal slept badly, half-expecting that Kate would show up, or Peter would decide he had done it after all, or something. After their session with Tim, he’d failed miserably at sensory exercises, until Suzanne gave up and led him and Peter through a relaxation meditation instead. She also scheduled them for a lesson in something called “bodywork” that Neal was a little concerned about.

They got up early and reported to the museum, where Peter solemnly presented his badge to the two teenagers—one Sentinel, one Guide—who were guarding the door. Blair directed them to coffee and bagels, and gave Peter a report. Kate’s picture had been broadcast on the local news and run on the local and student newspapers’ front pages; as a result, dozens of people had called to report recent sightings on campus and in Cascade. “If even half of the reports are accurate, it looks like she’s been in town for at least two weeks,” Blair said. “We haven’t gotten back that far in the museum video yet, but we have seen her making three other visits at last count. Unfortunately, she hasn’t been with anyone, or even seen talking to anyone.”

“This place is full of blind spots,” Neal said. “If for some reason she had to meet with her accomplices in the building, she wouldn’t do it on camera.”

“You’re probably right, but we’re checking anyway.” Blair went on to tell them that Kate’s scent samples had arrived from DC, and Jim had positively matched them to the scent evidence left in the gallery. No surprise there. “We still don’t have any idea who the other two men were—any ideas?”

Peter said, “The only male mundane we know Moreau worked with in the past is confirmed still in New York.”

Neal shook his head. Mozzie wasn’t involved, and there wasn’t anyone else he could think of. “The only person I can think of is Matthew Keller.” He would have stooped to threatening Sophia, no problem. “But Kate hated him.”

“Would you be able to rule him out using scent samples from the phone junction box and Sophia’s house?” Blair asked.

“No; I haven’t seen him—or smelled him—in years.”

“I don’t know if he’s in the Bureau’s scent files or not,” Peter said. “I’ll find out, and check into his recent whereabouts.”

Peter spent most of the morning on the phone with New York and DC. Neal, lacking anything better to do, sat with the uniformed officers who were reviewing the museum’s security tapes, keeping an eye out for Kate and any other familiar faces. He found Kate, twice more, but not Keller or anyone else he knew, apart from Blair, who had brought a class in at one point the previous week. 

Neal was beginning to think about going for coffee—anything to stop looking at grainy security footage for a while—when Peter said, “Neal. Ellison and Sandburg want us in the lobby.”

They went down. “We have a report that Moreau was seen in a coffee place at about nine this morning,” Jim said. 

Neal checked his watch. It was just after eleven. 

“The barista was pretty confident—she hadn’t seen any of the pictures until after the morning rush, when looked at the campus newspaper on her break, but she says she has a good memory for faces,” Blair continued. 

“I’m not sure I buy it, but we have to check it out,” Jim said. “If there’s a chance she—and the artifacts—are still in town….”

“She could be,” Neal said. They had done that, sometimes, on the assumption that if only an idiot would stick around, within a few miles of the crime scene could be the last place anybody would look for them. “The artifacts would be hard to get on a plane.”

“Well, we’re about to find out,” Blair said. “You guys coming?”

Peter agreed that they were. The coffee shop in question turned out to be a few minutes’ drive from campus, in an area with a lot of hotels. After a few minutes’ consultation with the barista, Jim took Blair’s hand and started sniffing around. 

“Was the woman you saw with anyone?” Peter asked the barista.

“No, but she ordered for four, to go.”

“Do you remember what she ordered?” Neal asked.

“Mocha with nutmeg, no whip; half-caff cappuccino, easy foam; and two tall drips with room for cream,” the barista recited. “And some pastries—I don’t remember what they were, since I didn’t have to make those, just ring them up.”

“Did she pay with a credit card?” Peter asked.

The barista shook her head. “Cash, sorry.”

“Are any of these gluten-free?” Neal asked, looking at the pastry display. 

“No—Common Grounds down the street has gluten-free muffins, though. They’re pretty good.”

“Did the woman ask if the pastries were gluten-free?”

“No.” 

“And both of the coffees were with room for cream?” 

“Yes. Why?”

“Just—confirming something.” Mozzie wasn’t here—he was both lactose and gluten-intolerant. “Thank you.”

They met up with Jim and Blair in a back corner of the shop. “It was Kate,” Neal said. 

“How do you know that?” Jim asked. “I can’t get a clear scent; there have been at least fifty people through here this morning.”

“Mocha, nutmeg, no whip,” Neal said. “That’s her drink. And there’s a fourth man in the crew. Probably.” 

“She got four drinks,” Peter explained.

“If you’re trying to lose pursuit that knows how many of you there are, but you have to stop for food, ordering for extra people can help,” Neal explained, “but if she’s expecting to be followed, she’d be stupid to show her face in Cascade. So it’s probably really four.” Also, the trick worked best if the extra orders telegraphed a demographic that was known not to be part of your crew—girly drinks if you were all men, for example. This place had something called a “Kid’s Cappuccino”; he’d have ordered a couple of those.

“Her in the museum, one guy to disconnect the phone line, one to threaten Sophia. What’s the fourth guy doing?” Blair asked.

“Wheelman?” Neal suggested. “You wouldn’t really need one for a job like this—the way the campus is laid out, it would make just as much sense to park a short distance away—but if you had a fourth guy you wanted to cut in, you could use one. Or,” an idea struck him, “if you have a client who wants to be near the action but not get his hands dirty. That would explain the drinks—she’s the mocha, the client is the cappuccino, and the two tall drips are the muscle.”

“You’re confident she was really here?” Jim asked.

“Yeah—well, unless the barista was lying. I guess Kate could have paid her off to tell us she saw her and what to say she ordered, but I don’t see why.” Especially if she didn’t know he was in town.

“She wasn’t lying,” Jim said. “All right, then we’re going to mount a full-scale search. Uniforms will canvas the hotels and businesses with photos, and we’ll get all the PD’s Sentinels out to search by scent. Are you in for that? We could use the help.”

“Yeah,” Neal said. 

“Nobody,” Blair said, with a pointed look at Peter, “is going to object if you want to sit this one out.”

“I can do it. I’ve been getting a lot better at scent work.”

Everyone refrained from pointing out that that wasn’t the only objection to Neal’s involvement in the search.

Jim made a call, and Sentinels and Guides began congregating at the coffee shop. One of the first to arrive brought a large-scale map of the area, and Jim began marking out a search grid. Within a half hour, there were over a dozen Sentinel-Guide pairs waiting for instructions—more than Neal had ever seen in one place before. “We’re looking for this woman, Kate Moreau, believed to be associated with the Rainier Museum robbery,” Jim said as Blair began distributing scent articles along with copies of the photo. 

“She has two, or possibly three, male accomplices. We have scent articles for two of the males, but they were collected from outdoor crime scenes several hours after the fact, so they won’t be much good. Garcia, Ross, Owens, and Nguyen, I’d like you to take samples for all three suspects; everybody else, focus on Moreau only. Keep the bags closed until you’re out of the coffee shop!” Jim added sharply, as one young-looking Sentinel near Neal began opening his. “Her hair is dyed; at the time of the robbery she was using unscented hygiene products and was not menstruating. She recently consumed a mocha with nutmeg. Witness believes she was wearing dark clothing, but is unsure.” Jim hesitated. “And she’s a Guide.”

A low murmur greeted that announcement. The young Sentinel hissed, “Sick.”

“We’re holding that detail back from the press and the public for now,” Jim added. “Moreau has no history of violence and is considered unlikely to be dangerous, but we’re unsure about the accomplices, so be alert. If you find anything, call Jacobs--” A woman Guide next to Ellison waved “—so she can put it on the map. Mendoza’s still out sick, so she’s volunteered to coordinate. “Once you have been assigned a search area, stick to it. If you finish your first one, ask Jacobs to give you another one; don’t wander into somebody else’s on your own. Nelson, that means you,” he added. The young Sentinel blushed. 

With that, people started crowding forward to get their search areas. W hen it was his and Peter’s turn, Blair said, “I put you over here by the waterfront—it’s a less populated area, but you do have to deal with the scent from the ocean. Is that going to work for you? If not, I could give you the park instead.”

“That’ll be okay,” Neal said. 

“And you’re going to stop when you’ve had enough?”

“Yes,” Neal agreed.

“Okay. Take Gutierrez, too.” Blair indicated a Guide standing by himself on the other side of the table. “He’s new and doesn’t have his own Sentinel.”

He didn’t indicate whether Gutierrez was there to make sure Neal didn’t let his ex-girlfriend escape or that Peter didn’t mistreat Neal. Maybe both. Either way, Peter didn’t object, so Neal didn’t either. 

They went to their assigned search area, Gutierrez in tow. When they got there, the other Guide started advising Neal on how to use his scent article. “She was my girlfriend,” Neal interrupted. “I know what she smells like.”

“You should probably smell it anyway,” Peter said. “To...refresh your memory.”

Neal hadn’t wanted to, but Peter had a point. He thought he’d recognize Kate’s scent anywhere, but he’d thought a lot of things about Kate that turned out not to be true. He unsealed the bag, and suddenly Kate was _there_ —not physically, but in the scent that for three and a half years had come attached to letters that meant comfort and safety and hope. 

What the hell was he doing, helping the police—not to mention the FBI—catch _Kate_? Who cared what she stole? Who cared if she left him? She was still Kate. Why had he ever thought this was a good idea?

Peter put his wrist in Neal’s free hand, and started talking him through his dials.

Right. That was why. After cataloging the scent, he sealed the bag and put it in his jacket pocket, where his fingers brushed against Sophia’s third-favorite racecar, a candy-apple red Corvette.

That was why, too. 

“Ready?” Peter asked softly.

“Ready.”

#

Peter knew that Sandburg and Ellison had assigned them the easiest search area, but the search was still more difficult than anything Neal had done in lessons or in New York. Peter watched him closely, ready to pull him at the first sign of distress. But Neal did everything the way Dr. Desai had taught them: kept his dials low, took breaks, and used Peter’s scent and touch to ground himself. He did protest, a few times, that he would be able to cover ground more quickly if he increased his scent dial to the maximum, but relented when Peter repeated Desai’s ‘tender young plant’ speech. The first couple of hours of the search passed without finding a trace of Kate, but also without Neal having any trouble. Peter was proud of him. 

“Let’s stop for a minute,” Peter said, seeing a slight line form between Neal’s eyebrows.

“I think I have something.”

“Good. Let’s stop for a minute. Breathe. Dial down. Six…five…four.”

Neal sighed, but obeyed. “Ready.”

Peter shut down the link, and Neal let go of his wrist, shaking his hand out. 

“Should I call it in?” Gutierrez asked.

“Not yet,” Neal answered. “I’m not sure.” He put his face close to Peter’s neck and took a few deep breaths. 

After a drink of water—Gutierrez had thought to bring that along, so there was one thing Peter missed—Neal said he was ready to continue, and Peter was ready to let him. The linked up again, and Neal took a few steps, sniffing the air. “ _Now_ you can call it in,” he told Gutierrez.

“It’s her?” Peter asked.

Neal nodded.

“Any idea how long ago she was here?” As an FBI agent, Peter was used to getting reports that said something like, “Sentinel on scene determined that suspect had been present at location for 15 minutes three to four hours ago,” but as a Guide, he had recently learned that determining the age of scent evidence was a highly complex process. In lab conditions, it was no more difficult than learning to estimate distances by eye—meaning that most, but not all, Sentinels could pick it up with some effort—but in the field, things like precipitation, wind speed, temperature, and the olfactory complexity of the surrounding environment had to be factored in. 

Neal shook his head. “Probably today. It’s pretty strong.”

Peter couldn’t reasonably expect him to be any more specific than that; Ellison would probably send one of the more experienced Sentinels over to narrow it down. “Do you want to try following it?” That was another thing Neal hadn’t really learned yet. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Peter studied Neal. He looked good—alert, no signs of sensory defensiveness. Gesturing to Gutierrez, he said, “You sure? He can get somebody else here to take over.”

“I want to try,” Neal said. 

Gutierrez nodded and said, away from the phone, “Go ahead. I’ll flag where he picked up the scent.”

“Thanks.” Peter wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly—something else he’d have to learn, he supposed. He and Neal set off, at first slowly, but then picking up speed. They were heading toward the water, Peter figured, picturing the map in his head. The area was mostly full of warehouses, spotted with a few vacant lots. The trail tended to swing out in wide arcs through these, ending up back on the street or alley where it had started. “Okay, I think she actually stayed on the road here,” Neal said, the second or third time this happened. “But the scent just sort of shifted over, because the wind’s a little bit stronger where there aren’t any buildings. Something like that.”

Peter supposed that made sense. “You’re doing fine.”

“I know I am.” They kept going. As they got closer to the water, Peter picked up the scent of salt. He wasn’t sure how Neal could smell anything else, but when asked, Neal said, “No, that’s easy to filter out. The human scent is--” He gestured vaguely. “Lower, sort of. It’s getting easy, now. We might be clo--”

Suddenly, he dropped Peter’s hand and took off at a run. 

“Neal!”

#

Neal was vaguely aware of Peter trotting after him, calling his name, but he could think of nothing but the other voice he had heard up ahead. Kate’s voice. The scent trail was strong—ridiculously so—but he didn’t need it; she was _there_ , and he could home in on her voice. 

He found her standing on a pier, the green backpack from her student disguise incongruous against her sleek black clothing. “Kate!”

She turned to look at him, heartbreakingly beautiful. “Well, look who showed up.” She turned to the two men with her—the muscle, Neal thought. “Go help Vincent with the boat; I’ll catch up.”

 _Vincent?_ “Kate,” Neal said. 

“You’re a little late, Neal,” she said. “But then, when aren’t you? All those years you talked about making me a queen—well, I found somebody who’s not afraid to actually _do_ it.”

“There are over a dozen Sentinels after you,” Neal said. Not to mention Peter. 

“Good,” Kate said, touching the straps of the backpack. “Once we get the artifacts back to the Temple, they can be our first followers.”

She was insane. “That’s not what they do. Having that stuff doesn’t make you a queen; it makes you a criminal.”

“I suppose I could talk Vincent into taking you with us,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. You missed your chance to be King, but—maybe Lancelot?” She shrugged and smiled winsomely. 

“Vincent— _Adler_?” He scanned the waterfront. There was the boat she had referred to—a forty-foot yacht. The two muscle-men were untying it from the dock, and Adler stood on the deck. Neal carefully didn’t look behind him, but with hearing and scent, he could pick out where Peter was. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint him—that would take a lot more practice—but he knew he was close, and to the left. And behind him—yes, Jim and Blair were coming, and probably some others.

“You always were a little slow on the uptake where he’s concerned,” Kate said. “I should have stuck with him to begin with. Even though he outsmarted you back when we first met, I thought you were the better prospect. God knows why.”

“Look, if you turn yourself in—flip on Adler—you can get a good deal.” 

“What, like yours? After all this, you still think I’m going to settle down with you? I don’t think so, Neal.”

“He’s been wanted for a long time. Tying him to the museum robbery would be worth something.”

“Not as much as the artifacts.”

On the boat, Adler swore and called out, “You stupid bitch, he led the cops right here!” The boat started to move away from the dock, and the two men hurried to jump aboard before it was too late. 

As Peter and Jim burst out of hiding, Kate started running down the pier. The boat was picking up speed, leaving the dock faster than Kate could approach it. As she neared the end of the pier, it was clearly too far to jump, but she didn’t slow. Neal ran after her. 

At the end of the pier, Kate jumped without hesitation, splashing into the water hard. She was a strong swimmer, and managed to right herself and struggle forward several yards—perhaps a quarter of the distance to the boat—before the weight of the backpack full of gold dragged her down.

#

As Neal jumped into the water after Kate, Peter cursed himself for waiting for backup. He had told himself it was because he couldn’t hope to capture all four suspects on his own, particularly when they had a boat ready to set sail, but in part, he had also wanted to give Neal a chance to finish things with Kate. Now, he could be finished in a much more final way than Peter had intended. 

The boat was gaining distance; ‘Adler,’ whoever he was, had clearly decided not to risk arrest to make a rescue attempt. He’d be arrested anyway—nearby, one of the Cascade PD officers was on the phone mobilizing the Coast Guard. Peter hurried to the edge of the pier. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then Neal surfaced, gasping for air. 

“Neal!” Peter yelled. “Get back in here!” From the size of the boat, the water here had to be very deep. Even though the search area was small, there was virtually no chance he’d find her in time. 

Neal shook his head. “Kate,” he said between gasps. “She has the…stuff. Gold. Heavy. She’ll drown if…doesn’t drop it.” He dove under the surface again.

Ellison appeared at Peter’s side, shucking his jacket and gun. “I’ll get him,” he said, and jumped in. 

Peter wanted to protest that he would do it, but he wasn’t much of a swimmer, and putting another person who wasn’t thinking clearly into the water wouldn’t help matters. Besides, Ellison was already swimming toward Neal’s last known location with powerful strokes. 

More Cascade PD officers arrived, brandishing guns and yelling at the men on the boat to surrender themselves. Peter paid them no attention, having eyes only for the water until Neal surfaced again. 

When he did, Ellison caught him by the arm. Peter could hear Ellison yelling, and Neal yelling back, but couldn’t make out any words over the general din. The content was clear enough, however—Ellison was telling Neal to give up and swim back; Neal was insisting on continuing to search. Finally, Ellison said something that made Neal, reluctantly, nod. With a sharp gesture to _stay_ , Ellison dove underwater. 

Some of the police officers found life preservers and tossed them to the men out in the water. Neal ignored them until Ellison, surfacing again, forced one into his hands. 

Peter became aware of Sandburg next to him. “Jim,” he yelled. “Time to come in now, man. You ever heard of hypothermia? Idiot,” he said in a lower voice.

Ellison, now gasping for breath himself, shook his head and held up one finger. 

“It’s been almost five minutes since she went down!” Sandburg yelled back. He didn’t, perhaps out of deference to Neal, point out that Kate was dead already, but Ellison must have known. He still shook his head again, though, and went under.

He came up two minutes later, unsurprisingly, alone. Neal protested, but he was already weakened from the cold and exertion, and couldn’t put up much of a struggle when Ellison put him in a rescue hold and started towing him back to the pier. 

#

“I wasn’t going to go with her,” Neal said. He was in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, with Peter holding one of his hands in both of his. Jim was on the opposite bench, similarly wrapped and attended to by Blair.

“I know,” Peter said. 

“I just didn’t want her to die.”

“I know,” Peter said again.

“If she had just—let go of the treasure….” She would still be alive. In custody, but alive. 

“I know,” Peter said, and hugged him. Neal let him. 

#

Sandburg, closing his phone, peeked inside the curtained area where Neal and Peter were sitting on a gurney. “Coast Guard caught the boat. All three men are in custody, and about half the artifacts were recovered with them.”

Neal nodded dully. “Great.”

The paramedics had agreed to let Neal and Ellison be checked out by the Clinic, rather than the ER, after Sandburg argued that neither was really injured, and the ER was the last place anybody would want to take a Sentinel who wasn’t in immediate need of lifesaving care. The Clinic had provided them with dry clothes and warmed blankets, and pronounced both Sentinels essentially fine, but none of them had left yet.

“Divers are just getting started,” Sandburg continued. 

“No hurry. The artifacts should be fine,” Neal said. “Gold doesn’t rust.”

“Yeah,” Sandburg said gently. “We’re not real worried about that.”

“I can give you—or whoever—her parents’ address. Somebody should probably tell them.”

“The Bureau’ll do that,” Peter said. There probably wouldn’t be much trouble getting the body released for burial, once they found it—there wasn’t any doubt about how she had died. 

“Do you need anything?” Sandburg asked. 

Neal shook his head. “No. Thanks.”

Peter rubbed his shoulder. “We’re supposed to be having a therapy session right about now,” he said. “Do you want to….”

“Can we skip that today? Please?”

“Yeah. If that’s what you want. It might help to…talk.” Not only was Kate dead, but from what Peter had managed to overhear, she had said some pretty harsh things before drowning herself. 

“I don’t want to.” 

Well, forcing him to definitely wouldn’t help. “Okay.”

Within a few minutes, they were cleared to leave. Neal didn’t seem to care about his waterlogged suit but Peter, thinking he might care when things settled down a little, arranged to have it taken to a dry-cleaner by one of the ubiquitous student workers. Neal also didn’t comment on the powder-blue scrubs he was wearing—an improvement over prison uniforms only in color—or when Peter put his suit jacket over his shoulders for the walk back to the cottage. 

Once there, Neal roamed around restlessly for a few minutes, then announced he was taking a shower. Peter, at a little bit of a loss himself, called Elizabeth. 

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, when Peter told her what had happened. “How’s he taking it?”

“I don’t know. He’s…quiet.” If Neal had been anyone else, Peter would probably have poured whiskey into him until he cried, but Neal didn’t seem like the type, somehow. 

“Maybe I should talk to him,” Elizabeth said. 

“Yeah, maybe.” He knew Neal and El had talked a few times since they’d been in Cascade. Maybe she’d be easier for him to talk to than Peter. “He’s taking a shower right now.”

“I’ll call back in a little while,” she decided. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

“The first act was pretty good, actually.” He told her about how well Neal had done with the search. “Of course, he probably wishes he hadn’t.” If she hadn’t stopped to talk to Neal, Kate would have been on the boat. If anyone else had been searching that area, she might have still been caught, but she wouldn’t have drowned. 

Maybe Neal wouldn’t think of that. 

After hanging up, Peter went over to the kitchenette to see what they could have for dinner. He doubted Neal would have much appetite, but they’d skipped lunch, so he should at least try to eat. 

Neal, finished with his shower, padded out in his white bathrobe, which, with his grave expression and forlorn posture, now looked more ‘hospital patient’ than ‘playboy.’ “Hey,” he said. 

“Hey. You hungry?”

Neal smiled faintly. “Not really.”

“Didn’t think so. Tomato soup and grilled cheese?” That was Peter’s idea of comfort food; he really had no idea what Neal’s was. 

Neal sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

The phone rang as Peter was getting out the bread and cheese. “That’s probably for you.”

Cautiously, Neal answered it. “Hello? Oh, hi, Elizabeth. Yeah. Thanks.”

He went into his bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Not knowing what else to do, Peter kept fixing dinner. The soup was Campbell’s, just like mom made, but the grilled cheese sandwiches were English cheddar on sourdough. Peter managed to get them crisply golden—fairly appetizing, maybe even enough to tempt someone who was having the mother of all bad days. He could hope, at least. 

After turning them onto plates and cutting each one in half, Peter went and peeked in Neal’s room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, the phone in one hand, covering his face with the other. 

Peter tiptoed away. It was probably better that way, than the whiskey. The sandwiches could wait.

#

The next day, they stayed close to home, Peter working on FBI paperwork on his laptop in the cottage living room. Neal supposed he was probably supposed to write a report, too, but Peter didn’t tell him he had to, and he certainly didn’t want to.

He felt…hollow. Empty, like Kate’s dying had taken something out of him that he hadn’t known was there. He had always bounced back quickly, even from some pretty horrible things. Kate leaving him. Being sent to prison. The abject failure of the long con that had brought him and Kate together. Other things, before that. He was lucky that way—thinking, ‘Okay, so that happened. Now what?’ was easy for him, just like getting people to give him things he wanted was easy. 

But now…there was no next thing. Kate was gone, and, if half of what she’d said just before she died was true, the Kate he loved had never really existed anyway. 

Last night, Elizabeth had told him that he had a right to grieve, both for what he’d lost and for what he’d never really had. He supposed she was right. Hearing it had helped, anyway. But if Kate was still his girlfriend—still his Guide—still the love of his life, there would be a next thing. There would be the funeral arrangements to make. People to notify. Memorials to plan. A shattered life to put back together around the empty place where she had been. 

But now…the funeral was somebody else’s job. How, or whether, she should be memorialized wasn’t his to decide. And his life…was exactly the way it had been yesterday morning. There was nothing of hers here, or even in his apartment in New York, that would have to be packed away or decided about. He still had his job, and Peter. His Guide and partner-in-crime…solving. He felt as though he ought to be looking at a smoking crater, but really, Kate’s death left barely a ripple in the water.

In truth, he wasn’t sure if he was really grieving, or only surprised into numbness by the fact that he _wasn’t_. 

Peter’s phone rang. “Burke…who is this? No, I don’t—he said what? Okay. Neal?” 

“What?”

He held out the phone. “For you.”

“Who is it?” He couldn’t imagine who would be calling him on Peter’s phone, unless it was Elizabeth again, and Peter sounded different when he was talking to her.

“Somebody who said, ‘As if you don’t know, J. Edgar Hoover,’ when I asked.”

Oh. Moz. He took the phone. “Hey.”

“Neal! Are you okay? What’s going on out there? Why are you calling me from J. Edgar Hoover’s phone, and what the hell does, ‘Kate’s dead and I need a new phone’ mean?”

Right; Neal had forgotten that last night, after talking to Elizabeth, he’d left a message for Moz. “It means that Kate’s dead, and I need a new phone. And I called you from Peter’s phone because mine doesn’t work anymore.”

On Moz’s end of the phone, he heard tape being torn off a roll. “Right; I’m sending you one. And I guess _I_ need a new phone, too, now that this one’s _contaminated_.”

“Oh, yeah, you do. I meant to tell you. Peter traced this number. Yesterday, I think. Unless it was the day before. I don’t remember.”

“Why did your Suit trace—never mind. What happened to Kate?”

“He had to find out if you were here robbing the museum with Kate.”

“Kate robbed the—did the animals get her? Or the Sentinel? Tell me your Suit didn’t shoot her.”

“No. She drowned.” Neal explained about the robbery, about tracking her through Cascade, about Adler, and how he had run as soon as he realized the police were on their heels. How Kate had jumped into the water to swim out to the boat. “With a backpack full of gold, she never had a chance. I jumped in after her, but it was too late. That’s what happened to my phone,” he added. “I didn’t have time to take my jacket off.” He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to his suit. He’d found his waterlogged wallet, ruined phone, and Sophie’s third-favorite racecar in an unsealed evidence bag on the kitchen table. Peter must have done something with it. 

“Jesus. Are you okay?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? “I guess.” 

“Is there anything I can do? Besides the phone.”

“No. There isn’t anything I can do, either.”

“No,” Moz said. “I guess not.” He sounded sad. “I’ll overnight your new phone out. Call me if you need anything…use the Suit’s phone if you have to.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He hung up and gave the phone back to Peter. 

“Thanks,” Peter said. “Just so I know, did you use my phone to leave alarming messages for anyone else?”

“No.” Who else could he have called? June, maybe, but she had never known Kate. 

“It’s fine if you want to borrow my phone. I just wondered if I should expect to hear from any more of your friends.”

“No,” Neal said again. 

“Okay. Are you doing all right? I should do this stuff soon,” Peter said, gesturing at the laptop, “but it doesn’t have to be right now, if you need anything.”

“I’m okay,” Neal said. 

Hours passed. They went to the Clinic. They started out with Tim, as usual. Peter quickly filled him in on what had happened yesterday. 

“He--” Peter looked over at him. “He did really well, with the search. I don’t know if I should say that, considering.”

“Well, let’s talk about that,” Tim said. “How do you feel about that, Neal?”

He shrugged. 

“Do you feel…guilty, for leading the police to your—to Kate?”

“No.” He hadn’t told her to jump into the goddamn ocean with a bag full of gold. He hadn’t tried to run away without her, like Adler had. He never would have. “I told her to turn herself in. She could have done that.”

“You tried to save her,” Tim said. 

“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t have?”

“The other Sentinel who was with her, for one,” Tim pointed out.

“Adler always was a bastard.” He turned to Peter. “You know who he is?” He hadn’t thought to tell Peter about that. 

“I got his file from the Bureau,” Peter said. “He’s wanted for a multi-million dollar Ponzi scheme a few years back.”

“Yeah, that’s him. Everybody who worked for him was plowing every cent they could spare back into the company, until he walked off with it.” Neal had stolen a lot of money, too, but not from people who _worked_ for him. That was probably not a distinction Peter would appreciate. 

“Wait—he was the ‘Sentinel businessman’ she was working for when you met?” Peter asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s why she said….” Peter didn’t repeat what she had said.

“Yeah. I was trying to con him, turned out he conned me first. He got all the money, but I got Kate. I thought I came out ahead.”

#

As their counseling session progressed, Neal seemed to wake up a little, coming out of the vague cloud he’d been walking around in since yesterday afternoon. He didn’t, however, _talk_ about yesterday afternoon—he talked about Kate, about the past, but not about her death. Peter thought it might be the challenge of seeming to answer Tim’s questions while deftly steering the conversation away from that topic that made him seem more animated.

The session was cut a bit short, because Neal’s appointment with the Sentinel Medicine Ophthalmologist, scheduled back when they’d first come to the Clinic, was set for that day. Peter wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but the ophthalmologist, Dr. Temas, was only in the Clinic one day a week, so it would be difficult to reschedule.

The doctor began with a normal eye exam, with some Sentinel adjustments. He had Neal look at an eye chart, first with both eyes, then with one at a time, then through a series of lenses. “Everything looks good so far,” he said when that was finished. “You have 20/20 vision—you’d be surprised how many Sentinels don’t.” Perching on a high stool, he took out a clipboard. “Now, about these visual distortions….”

Temas asked an extensive series of questions, starting with the visual distortions that Michelle, back at their intake appointment, had said were normal. He nodded at Neal’s answers to these, saying, “Good, good. That’s normal,” and things like that. 

When he got to the “Cubist one,” he grew more thoughtful, listening intently to Neal’s answers. “Okay. There’s a few things we have to rule out, but I think I know what that one is. And…Dali. Clocks, or elephants?”

Neal blinked. “Both,” he said. He wasn’t expecting the question, Peter thought, but he appeared to understand what it meant.

“ _Really_? Gosh.” Temas wrote several things on his clipboard.

“Is that bad?” Peter asked.

“No, no, it’s just…they’re both pretty unusual problems. And completely unrelated. Hm.” 

Temas had Neal look at more eye charts, these consisting of sets of lines arranged in spoke-like patterns, asking him if any of them appeared darker than the others, or thicker, or curved. They all looked pretty much identical to Peter, but Neal often found some darker or thicker. Not curved, though, which had Temas saying, “Oh, good. _That_ would have been weird.”

“It’s not weird yet?” Neal asked, sounding almost amused.

“Oh, well, you have two rare conditions—minor ones—and one moderately unusual one. Four would just be showing off, wouldn’t it?” Temas turned off the light behind the eye charts and sat down again. “The cubist effect is neurological. Do you know what ‘saccades’ are?”

“I don’t,” Peter volunteered.

“Well, your eyes are never actually still—they make tiny movements, many times a second. Those are saccades. What you _think_ is your visual field is actually a composite that your brain makes up of everything you’ve been looking at in the last second or so.” He paused. “That’s an oversimplification, but it’s close enough. The normal human brain is very, very good at making these composites—so good you never notice it’s doing it. The Sentinel brain is even better, but sometimes, especially if you’re having visual spikes, your brain can’t keep up with all the input and produce a picture that makes sense. It’s mostly seen in untrained Sentinels, and generally goes away—or at least becomes very, very infrequent—once you develop good control over your vision.”

“I haven’t had it happen since we’ve been here,” Neal offered. 

“Good. I wouldn’t worry about that one, then. Now, the distortion in the apparent _thickness_ of lines is one of the ways an untreated astigmatism manifests in Sentinels. Yours is in your left eye, and it’s untreated because it’s so tiny that if you weren’t a Sentinel, you’d never know you had it. You’re only noticing it now because you’ve been having so many visual spikes, and it combines with the perspective distortions to make linear objects seem longer or shorter than they should be. So that accounts for the elephants.”

“Oh, okay,” Neal said, nodding. 

Temas continued, “If you start doing any kind of detailed visual work at long distances, you should get corrective lenses. Glasses, probably; it would be annoying to take contacts in and out all the time. I’d have to do more tests to figure out the prescription, and then we have them made by a company that does custom microscope optics. But if you aren’t doing the kind of work where you need them, you might not want to bother.” He shrugged. “Now that brings us to the metamorphopsia—that’s the technical term for the effect where straight lines seem curved or wavy.”

“What causes that?” Peter asked.

“Lots of things. The most common is macular degeneration, which is definitely not the case here. Most likely, it’s either a side effect of migraine—you’ve had a lot of problems with nausea, right?”

Neal nodded. “I haven’t had headaches, though. Not really bad ones, anyway.”

“Not everyone does, with migraine, and for some reason migraine without the classic headache is more common in Sentinels. If it’s not that, then most likely it’s idiopathic, which is Latin for ‘Shit happens.’ Sometimes Sentinels just get odd sensory distortions for no reason anyone can figure out. But there is one serious possibility that we have to rule out, and that’s a structural deformity of the eye that can lead to retinal detachment.”

“That does not sound good,” Peter said.

“No, it’s not. And it’s very unlikely—if that was the case, I’d expect to see more problems with visual acuity. But to make sure, we’re going to have to dilate your pupils so I can get a good look at your retinas.” Temas looked at Neal, evidently anticipating some kind of a reaction. Neal shrugged. 

“Have you ever had that done?” Temas asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“You’d probably remember, if you had. We put some drops in your eye so your pupil can’t contract, and then I look into it with a really bright light. The drops take a few hours to wear off. Most people don’t like it much, and a lot of Sentinels absolutely hate it. But if you do actually have a problem with your retinas, they could detach without any further warning signs.”

Now Neal did look alarmed. “I definitely don’t want that,” he said with a slight shudder.

Temas nodded. “Like I said, I don’t think that’s what’s causing your metamorphopsia—I’m betting on migraine. But since it is such a serious possibility, we really have to do the test, just in case.”

“If that is it, do I just wait to go blind, or is there something you can do about it?” Neal asked.

“It can usually be corrected surgically,” Temas answered. “Most likely, fifteen minutes from now you’ll know it’s something you don’t have to worry about, but if there _is_ a problem, we’ll be able to get you surgery before the problem gets any worse, which is a lot better than waiting until the final stage.”

Neal nodded. “And if it is migraine, what then?”

“Then it’s most likely that you’ll stop having them when you have your senses under control. If not, we’ll refer you to a neurologist.”

“Okay,” Neal said. 

“Ready for the test?” 

Neal nodded.

“Okay. Just let me find my Guide.”

Huh. Temas was a Sentinel? Neal didn’t seem surprised; everyone but Peter seemed to just know these things, somehow. He looked over at Neal, who shrugged. “Doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Neal said. 

“Good.”

Temas returned with another man, apparently his Guide, dimming the lights as he came in. “Peter, right there,” he said, pointing to a spot next to the examination chair where Neal sat. “You’ll want to link with him for this.”

Peter took his assigned position and offered his wrist to Neal. Neal clasped it, and he made the link. 

“When I put the drops in, don’t rub your eyes, and try not to blink for as long as you can,” Temas said. “They don’t sting or anything, but it feels kind of weird.”

“Okay,” Neal said, sounding like he was humoring him.

“Tilt your head this way.” Temas dripped four drops of bright-yellow fluid into Neal’s eye.

“Oh, shit, that is weird,” Neal said. 

“I told you. Okay, you can blink now.” He gave Neal a tissue to blot away the excess fluid. “All right, other one.” Neal tilted his head the other way, and Temas repeated the process. “I’m going to take a quick look at your corneas while we wait for those to take effect. This part usually isn’t too bad, but it can be a little bright. You’ll want to dial sight down.”

While Peter talked Neal through that, Temas rolled a lamp on a stand over in front of Neal, and bent his head. “Kas?”

Kas settled one hand on the back of Temas’s neck. Hadn’t Ketner said nobody did that anymore? 

“Ready?” Temas asked. 

“Me?” Neal said. “Yes.”

“Good, so am I.” Temas turned on the lamp, shining a thin beam of light into Neal’s left eye. Neal squinted. “Keep your eye open, please.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay…there’s the astigmatism…lens is clear, nice corneas... everything looks good so far on this side. Let’s see your other eye.”

“He’s showing off,” Temas’s Guide said in a whisper that was clearly meant to be overheard. “He wouldn’t be able to see that astigmatism if he wasn’t a Sentinel.”

Temas shrugged. “And the other eye looks good, too.” He turned off the lamp and pushed it aside. “Now, this is the bad part.” He took another, smaller light out of his lab coat pocket. “I’m going to have to shine this light in each eye for about a minute and a half. If you need a break, I can stop, but it takes longer that way.”

“Okay,” Neal said. His hand tightened on Peter’s wrist. Peter shifted his grip so that Neal could feel his pulse; according to Dr. Desai, that helped with pain. He didn’t know about brightness, but it couldn’t hurt.

Temas bent in close to examine Neal’s left eye, his Guide following. Peter could feel Neal trying not to flinch away from the light, and patted his shoulder with his free hand. “You’re doing okay.” 

Finally, Temas straightened up. “Okay, that one looks fine.”

“Good,” Neal said. He was breathing hard, reminding Peter forcibly of yesterday, when he’d been gasping for breath while treading water. 

“Ready for the other one?”

“Yeah, let’s get it over with,” Neal said.

After another agonizing minute and a half, Temas pronounced the second eye fine, too. “So we did all that for nothing,” he said. “That’s usually how it is.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Neal said. He raised his hand to his face, then hesitated. “Can I rub my eyes now?”

“Yes,” Temas said. 

Neal did so. 

Temas bustled around putting away his instruments for a moment, then handed Neal a pair of cheap, blocky sunglasses from a drawer full of them. “Here, you’ll need these.”

Neal examined them blearily. “You’re trying to torture me, aren’t you?”

“You’ll be glad you have them when you go outside,” Temas predicted. “Or, out in the hallway, actually.”

Neal looked highly dubious, but once they left the examination room, he quickly put the ugly sunglasses on, mumbling something about how at least he didn’t have to look at them. “Whatever ‘bodywork’ is,” he said, referring to their last appointment of the day, “I hope it can happen in the dark.”

As it turned out, it could. 

#

The first part of “bodywork” turned out to be relaxation exercises. Neal thought they were fairly silly—instead of the straightforward meditation Suzanne had had them do two days before, the bodywork practitioner, Selena, preferred asking them to imagine they were floating on clouds, being immersed in a fluid of the soothing color of their choice (Peter’s was orange, possibly the least soothing color Neal could think of), and other inane things of that sort. Still, after the frankly harrowing end to the eye exam, Neal supposed clouds weren’t so bad. And when he’d asked, Selena had turned the already-dim overhead lights off entirely, leaving the room lit only by a few natural beeswax candles. 

After the relaxation exercises came some very gentle stretching. That, too, was not so bad, Neal thought, although he could have done without Selena’s excessively chirpy narration, where she exhorted them to do things like, “Reach up, up, like you’re trying to touch the sun,” and “Reach down, to tickle the cool grass of Mother Earth.”

When they got to the last part of the lesson, though, Neal began to feel positively nostalgic for tickling Mother Earth, because the third part was Selena teaching them to give each other massages, while burbling enthusiastically about the benefits of “soothing, non-sexual touch.” Maybe lounging around on pillows rubbing his…rubbing Peter’s back wasn’t _inherently_ sexy, but constantly talking about how it _wasn’t_ sexy seemed like protesting too much. 

“Try using longer, firmer strokes,” Selena urged. “Imagine that you’re kneading bread…push out…stroke back…”

Honestly, it was like being taught to masturbate by a kindergarten teacher. 

Fortunately, when Neal finished with Peter’s massage, Selena realized that there wasn’t enough time for them to switch places. Rather than subject Neal to _massagus interruptus_ , she suggested instead that Peter, “Try out what you’ve learned at home. Many Sentinels find it easier to relax in their own environment, anyway.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Peter said. 

Neal was sure she was right, too. As far as his dick was concerned, the presence of a neutral third party was the only thing that distinguished this from foreplay. He’d definitely be more _relaxed_ back at the cottage.

“Great! When we meet again on Monday, we can talk about how it went.”

Even better. There was very little chance that Peter would skip out on a homework assignment if he knew there was going to be a test. 

Peter put his jacket back on—Selena had insisted he take it off for the massage—and held out Neal’s hideous sunglasses that made him look like a bug. Neal put them on—it wouldn’t be dark outside yet, and looking like a bug beat the alternative. 

It occurred to Neal, as they walked back to the cottage, that squinting behind his sunglasses against the late-afternoon sun was nowhere near as bad as what, less than two weeks ago, he would have considered a normal Friday afternoon. He and Peter had made a lot of progress since coming here.

Neal wondered, sometimes, if it would last, once they went back to New York. But he wouldn’t think about that right now. Just like he wasn’t thinking about…the other thing he wasn’t thinking about. Neither the eye doctor nor Selena had known about it, and after over two hours of no one mentioning it, Peter seemed to have forgotten to be careful around him, to treat him like he was damaged. 

He probably hadn’t really forgotten. Neal certainly hadn’t. But it was easier, now, to find that “What’s next?” place, as long as he didn’t look too far ahead. The question of who he was, if not Kate’s lover, could be pushed aside, like the question of what would happen between him and Peter when they went home. When Peter went home, and Neal went back to his apartment at June’s. What was next _now_ was dinner, and if he didn’t give it some thought, Peter would. 

He put together a simple pasta dish, with a white wine and cream sauce, washed down with perhaps a little more of the wine than was strictly wise. If he wasn’t planning to keep drinking to the point of insensibility—which he wasn’t; he’d learned a long time ago that there was no situation that couldn’t be made worse by drunkenness—he should have stopped about a glass earlier. 

That might have been why—or in any case, he told himself it was why—when Peter suggested it might be a good time to try that backrub, Neal stretched and said lazily, “Yeah, okay,” rather than marshalling any of the convenient and partially-true reasons why that might not be a good idea. It was also, he told himself, the reason why, when Peter suggested that a three-piece suit might not be the ideal outfit for this activity, he changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms, and the reason that he didn’t argue for a less _relaxing_ venue when Peter led him toward his bedroom.

He stretched out on the bed (Peter’s bed) on his stomach. Peter sat beside him, saying, “All right, I’ll…I’ll start here, okay?” He settled his hands on Neal’s shoulders.

If Peter proved to be really _bad_ at this, maybe the potential for staggering humiliation—or worse—was less than Neal thought. “Okay.”

At first, he thought he might be safe. Peter’s fingers dug into his trapezius muscles like he thought he was clawing through sand. But after Neal winced a couple of times, Peter said, “Sorry,” and eased up considerably. “Too hard? El always…we took this couples massage class our therapist recommended.”

“That’s funny,” Neal observed. Apparently it wasn’t just the Clinic therapists who thought Peter needed expert instruction in touching people. 

“I’m glad it amuses you.” 

There was probably something seriously wrong with him, Neal thought, that Peter taking that familiar, pissy tone while rubbing his shoulders was so goddamned hot. 

Peter had probably brought it up in the first place to remind him that this wasn’t supposed to be hot, _couldn’t_ be hot, because Peter was married. To Elizabeth, who Neal liked. She was smart and funny and clearly loved Peter while simultaneously thinking he could be a colossal idiot from time to time, which was a position Neal had a lot of sympathy for. 

And it was very different from how Neal had felt about Kate, who he had idealized beyond reason, in the face of what he should have realized was mounting evidence to the contrary. She had switched her allegiance from Adler to him before Adler’s betrayal, without a second thought and with no more reason than that Neal seemed more fun. How was it a surprise that she had done the same again, in reverse, when it was Neal who proved to be less fun than she wanted? 

Peter wasn’t in this for fun. He wasn’t only in it for duty, either, although that was part of it. The fact that Neal _needed_ him mattered to Peter, in a way it hadn’t to Kate. He wouldn’t have left Neal alone, in prison, even if he hated him. No, if Peter hated him, he’d have fixed Neal up with another Guide, made sure he was all right. And he hadn’t done that, because he didn’t hate him. Peter, in fact, liked him kind of a lot. 

Which was why he had not only allowed, but positively encouraged, Neal to lie half-naked on his bed getting a backrub that he was enjoying way more than he probably should. Peter had very nice hands. 

“You awake?” Peter asked. 

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re very quiet.”

“’m supposed to be relaxing,” Neal reminded him. “You want me to sing?” He could, he supposed.

“Not particularly.”

“’kay.”

Peter’s hands left his shoulders, his thumbs pressing down alongside either side of Neal’s spine, fingers stroking the _latissimus dorsi_. Neal let out a happy little whimper.

Peter paused. “Is that a good sound?”

“Yes. Good. Very good.”

Continuing, Peter shifted himself up onto his knees to get better leverage. He didn’t quite go so far as to straddle Neal’s hips, but the half-second or so where Neal thought he _might_ was enough to take him from comfortably and sleepily aroused to rock-hard. If this went on much longer, he was going to have a hard time stopping himself from rubbing against the mattress. 

Just before the temptation to do so became unbearable, Peter sat back, taking his hands off Neal. “Okay. I think that’s enough—you good?”

“Yeah,” Neal said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Good. That was…really nice.”

“Good.” The mattress bounced slightly as Peter stood up. “I’m just going to…you stay there and relax for as long as you want to.”

It was a damn good thing Peter wasn’t sending him off to “relax” in his own bed—the damn pyjama pants wouldn’t hide a thing, once he was no longer lying on his front. “Okay,” he said as Peter left, shutting the door behind him.

Neal gave himself a few minutes to wallow before turning his mind to how he was going to deal with this situation. He was _not_ going to jerk off in Peter’s bed. That would be wrong, and anyway, Peter was almost certain to find out about it if he did. 

There were a few things he was carefully not-thinking about that, if he thought about them, would take care of the situation once and for all. But this was—sadly—the closest he’d come to getting laid in over four years. And it wasn’t like him getting off on it would do Peter any harm, particularly if he never knew it happened. So he really just had to settle himself down enough that he could make it to another room without tripping over his dick—the bathroom, for preference; he could turn on the shower to be sure of not being overheard. 

Searching for a subject that was anerotic without being traumatizing, Neal settled on the motel. Not the Best Western—imagine how much more awkward this would be if they were still staying there!—but the motel in Manhattan. With the disgusting bedspreads and the flies and the pervasive smell of pee, which Neal was still not entirely certain was solely the fault of the establishment’s one canine resident. 

Maybe, if Peter had liked him _then_ , he would have taken Neal home with him, rather than leave him in that awful place. No, better not think about that—if he thought about it realistically, he’d only have to realize how depressingly unlikely it was, and in the other direction lay only pornographic fantasy, which wouldn’t help the current problem. Motel, right. What color had that horrible linoleum been?

After calling to mind more putrid details of the motel than he cared to count, Neal finally felt able to stand up without embarrassing himself. He did duck quickly into his own bedroom, next door to Peter’s, to grab his robe, just in case the additional camouflage became necessary for the longer trip to the bathroom.

That turned out to be a good idea. As he crossed the living room, Peter, who was perched on the edge of a couch cushion reading a magazine, glanced up and said, “What’s up?”

Neal pointed toward the bathroom. “There aren’t really that many possibilities—do you want details?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good.” Neal managed not to scurry the rest of the way to the bathroom, nor to slam the door behind him. 

One side-effect of the lessons he’d been getting in scent-work was that Neal was much more aware of scent now, even when he wasn’t actively using his senses. A week ago, he might not have noticed anything at all. Now, though, the smell of sex—sex and Peter, Peter’s arousal—was as obvious as if the walls had suddenly been painted red. 

Entering the room, Neal automatically flipped on the light, but quickly realized his mistake when 100 watts hit his unprotected eyeballs. He turned them off again, closing his eyes for good measure. 

The scent was even more pronounced, that way. Absolutely impossible to miss, and so, so, hot. Neal could even identify the washcloth—carefully rinsed, but not carefully enough—Peter had used to clean up after himself. The thought of using it—using the same cloth Peter had used—to jerk himself off was…wrong, but irresistible. He barely managed to remember to turn on the shower before picking it up. 

In the back of his mind, Neal knew that Peter hadn’t been turned on for the same reason he was. Not because he was attracted to Neal, or because nobody else touched him. It was, at best, a simple physiological response to the presence of an aroused Sentinel. Even more likely, Peter could have been thinking about his wife, about that couples massage class. That was probably it. 

Most of his mind didn’t care about that, though, and his cock didn’t care at all. He started stroking himself, quickly settling into a rhythm. Surrounded by the scent of his Guide’s arousal and release, he couldn’t last long, and bit his lip to keep from crying out as he came. Suddenly weak in the knees, he slumped gracelessly to the tiled floor.

#

Peter had just started to relax when he heard a loud thump from the bathroom. 

Seeing Neal heading for the bathroom had given him a moment of pure panic—he wasn’t sure how good Neal’s sense of smell was, but if he had the slightest idea what Peter had been up to in there just minutes before, God only knew what he’d think. That Peter had suggested the massage, and had encouraged Neal to undress for it, out of prurient interest, for starters. And given some of the crazy ideas Neal had had about him before, it wasn’t impossible that he’d start to wonder if Peter planned to exploit him in more invasive ways, and that tolerating Peter’s attentions might be a requirement for staying out of prison. That was only the worst possibility, though. Given what he’d read in the sex chapter of _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_ , as well as the fact that Neal was, well, _Neal_ , it was entirely possible that he would positively _welcome_ Peter’s…attentions, which could go spectacularly wrong in several ways. On a third hand, Peter could also see him finding the whole thing uproariously funny. From what he could tell, Neal seemed to assume that everything with a pulse was attracted to him, and was usually right. There was really no telling.

All in all, Peter figured he’d dodged a bullet when Neal didn’t immediately re-emerge from the bathroom to flee in terror, make a pass at him, or mock him mercilessly. But now there was the thumping, and that raised a whole new set of possibilities. “Neal? You okay in there?” he called.

“Yeah,” Neal called back. “I just…tripped.”

Tripped. Well, he didn’t _sound_ injured, so at least Peter wouldn’t be turning up in the Clinic medical wing trying to explain how Neal had come to have a bloody nose or broken arm, without actually saying the words, “slipped on a patch of come I missed when I was cleaning up.”

On the other hand, if that was what had happened, there was definitely going to be mocking. 

The shower was still running, and God knew Neal could take a long time in there, so Peter resolved not to think about it, and went back to his laptop. The Bureau and the state of Washington had worked out between them that Adler would be prosecuted federally, but Washington could keep the two accomplices, whose roles appeared to have been fairly minor. That cut down considerably on the paperwork, but there was still a lot of it. 

For one thing, the death of a suspect fleeing arrest called for extensive documentation, and Peter was thinking about how to begin tackling that when his phone rang. It was a local number, and the caller ID said ‘Cascade Police.’ He answered, “Agent Burke.”

“Burke, this is Captain Banks. Our divers have finished searching the area by the pier.”

Banks wouldn’t have called personally just to tell him that. The search must have turned up something unexpected. Something that implicated Neal? Or seemed to? “What did they find?”

“They found the backpack with the artifacts as soon as the search began,” Banks said. “Directly below the spot where Moreau was last seen, accounting for currents and so forth.”

“Good,” Peter said cautiously. 

“And that’s all they found,” Banks concluded. “We had them down all day today, until it got dark, but they didn’t find a—didn’t find Moreau.”

Peter clutched the phone tightly. “What does that mean?”

“It’s possible that the action of the tide separated the backpack from the…remains,” Banks said. “Without the weight of the gold, any remains would have drifted away. We expanded the search area as far as was practical, but there is a possibility that the remains could have been swept out into the open ocean, in which case they may wash up somewhere else, or may never be found at all.”

So there was no body, might never be one.

“But the divers consider that unlikely, for various technical reasons relating to the currents and the topography of the area,” Banks said. “I’ll make sure you get copies of the reports. Tests with the same model of backpack suggest it’s more likely that she removed it herself. We have to consider the possibility that she escaped.”

#

Escaped. The word had been running circles around Neal’s brain since he came out of the shower. He’d thought that facing Peter again after what he’d done—after what they’d both done, separately—would be awkward, and had half-planned to sequester himself in his room for at least a couple of hours. When Peter had told him to sit down, they needed to talk, Neal had assumed it had something to do with what he’d just been doing. He hadn’t expected this.

Kate was alive. Peter hadn’t said that, in so many words. He’d said _the divers think, possibility we have to consider, may never be sure_. But Neal was sure. It made so much more sense now. He’d misjudged Kate in many ways, but he hadn’t been wrong that she wasn’t stupid enough to jump into the ocean wearing a backpack full of gold. She’d been carrying it around for a while, and even if she hadn’t, she knew how heavy gold was. And she knew that it wasn’t worth her life. Was worth risking the robbery, was worth leaving Neal for, was even worth hooking back up with Adler, even though she had to know betrayal was a possibility—that made sense, now that he was looking at Kate with clearer eyes. She was ruthless, but she wasn’t stupid.

Picturing the area where they’d found her, he could think of at least one way she could have done it. If she had known she was going to be dragged down by the pack full of gold—and of _course_ she had known—she would have been ready. She’d have taken a deep breath right before she went under, and would have dropped the pack without hesitation, without slowing down to consider if there was some way to keep it and still make her escape. Without it, and with lungs full of air, swimming underwater to the next pier would have been merely difficult, not impossible. Under the pier, she could have come up for air. Could even have stayed there and watched as Neal and Jim searched for her, if she was that arrogant. She could also have hidden herself in a boat, waiting to steal it when the police left, or kept swimming underwater from one pier to the next until she was far enough from the police to go ashore unseen. If she had anticipated Adler’s betrayal—or had planned to betray him herself—she might even have had another boat, with another set of confederates, waiting for her. 

“Are you okay?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. Don’t you have to call the Bureau or something?” Neal asked, because that was what was next. If Kate was alive, the Bureau had to keep looking for her.

“Already did.”

The realization that Kate was alive had brought a rush of fierce joy, but he’d quickly realized that it changed nothing. She was alive, but she didn’t care that Neal had thought her dead. The things she had said on the pier, and the things Neal had, belatedly, realized about their relationship, were still true. They were still _over_. 

But now that she wasn’t dead, Neal was free to admit, at least to himself, that he hated her, a little bit, for not being who he thought she was.

#

Peter had worried that hearing that Kate might, possibly, not be dead would send Neal into another tailspin—or worse, fill him with false hope for a reconciliation. But he seemed to take the news in stride. He was fairly convinced that she _had_ , in fact, escaped with her life, but knowing what he did about their history, Peter thought he was more likely to be right than tragically deluded. During their counseling session the next morning, he talked about being angry with her—for leaving him in the first place, for letting him think she had died, and for other, more nebulous things. Tim’s stated opinion was that anger was a very healthy reaction under the circumstances, and while Peter privately doubted that the therapist had ever encountered these exact circumstances before, he was inclined to agree. After Tim, they had a session with Dr. Desai, where Neal settled down to work easily. 

After the Clinic, they met Sandburg and Ellison at the museum, where the artifacts were being cleaned and restored in an upstairs lab. “The animals are back,” Neal said when they were shown up to the lab, moving a little closer to Peter’s side.

“Yeah, they came back not long after Adler and the other two guys were taken into custody,” Sandburg said. “Sophia was a little sad to see them go, but her mother is mostly relieved.”

“I’m glad they’re _both_ here,” Neal said. “I guess both sets of artifacts are real, then?”

Sandburg looked over at the lab bench in alarm. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

Neal shrugged. “If Kate was planning to fake her death all along, Adler’s set would have been swapped out for forgeries at some point. You might want to run some extra tests to make sure, but I expect they’d know.” He gestured at an empty section of floor that Peter supposed must contain a wolf and a jaguar. 

“You’re probably right,” Sandburg agreed. “But yeah, we’ll check into it.”

Peter and Ellison talked a little about the case. The PD was still receiving occasional reports that Kate had been spotted around Cascade, but none were particularly credible. They both agreed it was most likely she had left town for good. “The museum’s hired an extra guard until they can upgrade their security,” Ellison added. “Just in case she is still around, or someone else decides to give it a try.”

“I have some ideas about that,” Neal offered. 

“I bet you do,” Ellison answered. 

“I’d take him up on that if I were you,” Peter said. “He _is_ an expert on museum security.” An expert in violating it, but still an expert.

“Speaking of the museum,” Sandburg said hastily, “the Guide Studies department is throwing a party to celebrate the return of the artifacts. I don’t know if you guys feel much like celebrating, but you’re certainly invited.”

Peter glanced over at Neal, who shrugged. “Could be fun.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to a college party,” Peter said, thinking of his own college days. He thought he was pretty much past the keg and chips stage of his life. Neal could probably pull off partying with college students, but Peter didn’t think he could.

“Us adults usually outnumber the kids,” Ellison said. 

Sandburg added, “We always invite whole Cascade Sentinel-Guide community to department events—it’s good for the undergrads to spend time with adult Sentinels and Guides who aren’t their parents or teachers.”

Peter hadn’t even considered the horrifying possibility that he and Neal—particularly Neal—could be seen as responsible adult role models. 

“The food’s good,” Ellison added. “People bring stuff. The department provides the drinks, and they’re…not terrible.”

“We usually break out slightly better stuff after the kids leave,” Sandburg added. “They usually don’t stay that long. About three-quarters of the adults at these things are either cops or officers of the university, so we can’t really turn a blind eye to underage drinking and general shenanigans. I’ll never get used to being part of that particular ‘we,’” he added, with a self-deprecating grin. “Back when I was an undergrad, I remember it being kind of fun to try out adult social manners for a couple of hours, but by eight or nine we’d start drifting off to whatever group house the cool kids were living in that year so we could act stupid. These days, I don’t even know where the after-parties are, but the kids still start disappearing around the same time, so I’m sure they’re going somewhere.” 

“I don’t know about you,” Neal said, “but I’m getting a little tired of sitting around at home—in the cottage—every night.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “Count us in, then.”

#

When the excitement of the museum heist died down, they went back to cataloging the cache of paintings, which was certainly less stressful, and to their usual round of therapy and lessons at the Clinic. At their Monday bodywork lesson, when Selena asked how their homework had gone, both Neal and Peter carefully avoided looking at each other. “Fine,” Peter said. 

“Yes,” Neal agreed. “Fine.” He searched for something else to say. “Relaxing.”

“Great!” Selena said. “I know it can be a little embarrassing at first, especially for guys, but--”

Oh, God, she was going to say it again, Neal thought.

“—soothing, non-sexual touch is so important, both for stress relief and for strengthening your connection to each other.”

She seemed to be waiting for them to respond, so Neal said, “I couldn’t agree more,” in hopes that she would drop the subject. 

Neal thought she might be buying it, but when Peter added, “Yeah, I think we both understand this pretty well. We probably don’t need to take up any more of your time,” she became skeptical.

Not that she went so far as to call them liars who were trying to get out of the lessons, though. She just frowned for a moment, then bounced and said, “No problem! There’s _lots_ more advanced techniques we can work on!”

And there were. Selena tried to suggest that this time, Peter should be the massager and Neal the massagee, but Neal quickly said, “Oh, but Peter’s already taken a massage class. He’s so much better at it than me; I think I have more to learn.”

Peter gave him a death-glare behind Selena’s back as he threw himself down on the pillows, but Neal thought it was completely worth it. Really, Peter should be thanking him—they’d _both_ responded the same way Friday night; if it happened again, in front of Selena and with no prospect of privacy until after his sensory lesson, they’d probably both be scarred for life. 

By carefully focusing on Selena’s inane commentary and on answering her with equal guilelessness, Neal managed to keep the problem from—ahem—arising. 

Unfortunately, it all got to be a bit too much, and Neal didn’t quite manage the appropriate air of wide-eyed innocence when he asked, “So you want me to do it harder _and_ deeper?”

Peter snickered, and Selena said, “I don’t think you two are taking this entirely seriously,” and sent them both to their clouds to think about what they had done. 

She also ratted them out. At their Tuesday therapy session, Tim presented them with a stack of scientific studies on the importance of touch for platonic Sentinel-Guide pairs, and said, “Look, I know Selena can be a little…eccentric, but this really is important. Neal’s doing well enough here that you probably haven’t really needed these techniques, but you’re also spending almost all of your time together here. When you go back to New York, there are likely to be some setbacks, and the things Selena’s teaching you will—believe it or not—help you deal with them.”

“Sorry,” Peter said. “I guess we weren’t thinking of it that way.”

“Yeah,” Neal agreed. He hadn’t realized that, of course, being around Peter all the time was one reason he wasn’t having as much trouble with his senses as he had back in New York. With their time here in Cascade—his time of having Peter all to himself—nearly half over, he _ought_ to be thinking about how he was going to manage back in real life. 

“It would help,” Tim acknowledged, “if she would tell people more about the practical applications of the things she teaches, since a lot of it can seem pretty silly. The stretching exercises and guided relaxation will help you cope with challenging sensory environments—Peter, what you’re supposed to be learning is how to lead Neal through them.”

“I didn’t realize that,” Peter said. 

Tim nodded. “That may not have been clear. I mean, Selena’s great; she’s started a program for teaching directed meditation and relaxation to Sentinel and Guide kids that’s having some really great results.”

Nailed it, Neal thought. She _was_ a kindergarten teacher. He wondered if Sophia would be taking Selena’s class— _she’d_ probably like it. 

“But some adults find her teaching style a little…heavy on whimsy and light on theory, I guess you could say,” Tim concluded. “It makes more sense if you understand that it’s significantly more difficult for Sentinels to control their senses under stress. I would guess, in your jobs, there are probably some times when you have to work in highly stressful conditions.”

“Well, yes,” Peter agreed.

“Michelle and I were in the Navy, by the way, before we started doing this,” Tim added. “In a difficult situation, as a Guide, your first job is to get _yourself_ calmed down enough that you can focus on what your Sentinel needs from you. Then you have to get _him_ calmed down enough to listen to you, _then_ you can work. That’s not easy if you’re, say, under fire, but that’s when you have to be able to do it, and do it fast. Practicing in safe conditions—even if it feels stupid—is how you get there.”

“We’ll practice,” Peter said, and Neal could tell he meant it. They were going to be spending a lot of time on clouds in the future.

Tim continued, “And regular physical contact is significantly associated with improved control and reduced sensory distress for Sentinels—especially ones who don’t live with their Guides. You need to have a strong connection with each other, and in some ways that’s something that can only be built over time, but physical contact helps. It’s kind of like a shortcut. And can you think of a way for the two of you to get a couple hours a week of close physical contact that would be _less_ awkward than giving each other backrubs?”

Neal thought about it. “Not really, no.”

“We don’t—I don’t mind doing it, really,” Peter said quickly. “It’s just—well, you know, we’re not used to it.”

“And that’s why you should start getting into the habit now. Back in New York, you should plan on making it part of your regular routine—probably two or three times a week.”

They ended up agreeing to take Selena’s lessons more seriously, and to practice the relaxation exercises and massage techniques at home.

At the cottage, rather. Neal had started to think of it as ‘home,’ but really, it wasn’t.

As if reminded by Tim’s mention of New York, Peter mentioned that Elizabeth was coming out next week—she had called last night to tell them she’d gotten tickets and when to pick her up at the airport. She’d be arriving Sunday and leaving Thursday, the weekends being the busiest time in the event-planning business. The plan was to keep up with their Clinic schedule during her visit, but take some time off from working on the art cache—they were ahead of schedule, anyway—so she and Peter could spend mornings and evenings together. 

“So we should probably do that work-life balance stuff you were talking about, while she’s here,” Peter concluded. 

Tim agreed, “Yes, definitely. We’ll schedule some time with a work-life balance counselor. Those usually focus on logistics: expectations about time management, boundaries, communication, things like that. You—all three of you—can also think about whether you want to bring Elizabeth into your sessions here. We haven’t really gotten into discussing Neal’s concerns about the effects your partnership could have on Peter’s marriage. It might be productive to work on that while everyone involved can participate.”

Neal supposed he was right. It wouldn’t make for a very fun vacation for Elizabeth, but they had to do it sometime, and Elizabeth, at least, could keep Peter from denying that there was a problem to talk about. 

The rest of the afternoon was a sensory theory lesson, and Neal half-hoped that Peter would have forgotten about the first part of their therapy session by then, but the first thing Peter said once they were back at the cottage was, “Dinner first, or clouds?”

Neal was never one to get things he wasn’t looking forward to out of the way first—there was always a chance something would come up that would mean you didn’t have to do it. “Dinner.” Maybe the museum would be robbed again, or the world would be overrun by zombies, before they got to clouds. 

No such luck. After dinner, Neal found himself dressed in yoga pants and a t-shirt, listening to Peter half-heartedly reprise Selena’s cloud speech. 

“Notice how the cloud feels. It might be…uh, damp. Your body is slowly sinking through the cloud, but—uh, it’s very safe, for some reason. This isn’t working, is it?”

“Not at all,” Neal agreed. “Let’s try the stretching; that’s not quite as stupid.”

“Let’s,” Peter agreed. 

They did that. Without some of the more ridiculous imagery—such as tickling Mother Earth—it was fairly bearable, especially after Neal moved so that he was _not_ looking at Peter’s ass when he bent over. 

After that, Peter reluctantly said, “I guess we should try the clouds again. Or maybe the orange liquid one?”

“I’m thinking it would work just as well if we did something a little more Zen and less kindergarten,” Neal said. “Remember the meditation Suzanne had us do the other day?”

“Vaguely.”

“I’ve done it before,” Neal said, dropping into a half-lotus. He’d realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t possible to get into a comfortable full lotus position with a tracking anklet on. 

“With the safecracking guy?” Peter asked, copying him.

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Moz usually had him start by looking at a candle, or sometimes a rock, but Neal didn’t want to get up to find one, so he decided to skip that part. “All right, start by noticing your breathing—”

“I’m supposed to be doing the talking,” Peter objected.

“Do you know what to say?”

“No.”

“Then pay attention, and you can do it next time.” Maybe Moz could recommend a book.

The relaxation meditation was mostly breathing, which Neal found easier to take seriously than imaginary clouds. Peter seemed to feel the same way, and they managed to get through it with a minimum of embarrassment. 

The same would not be true, Neal feared, of the massage exercises. 

#

Peter hoped that rubbing Neal’s back on the living room floor, with him lying on the cushions from the couch, would seem less sensual than doing it on his bed, but it turned out that having Neal spread out in front of him, shirtless and relaxed, was pretty sensual, regardless of what room they were in. Neal was warm and solid under his hands, and kept making these _noises_ —little sighs and murmurs of contentment, and occasionally recognizable words, like, “That’s nice, Peter.”

It wasn’t, Peter told himself, that he was troubled by being physically attracted to a man. It happened—even before Neal, he’d occasionally found himself drawn to another man in a way that a straight man shouldn’t be. He’d always wondered if it had something to do with being a Guide, and as it turned out, maybe it was—according to the book, Guides were often attracted to Sentinels of both genders, and vice versa. It was normal, and fine. 

And it wasn’t even that he was married—he and Elizabeth both knew that being married didn’t mean you stopped noticing other people; they had even explored how talking about who they found attractive could liven things up in the bedroom. But this wasn’t a cute waiter or somebody they met at a party; this was _Neal_ , who was going to be a big part of their lives for the next three and a half years. Peter couldn’t think of his attraction to him as lighthearted fun.

If they were going to be doing this two or three times a week—and if it would help Neal, they would be—Peter couldn’t keep getting aroused every time. For one thing, eventually, Neal would notice. 

Step one, Peter decided, was to keep his mind on the task at hand. According to the articles Tim had given them, which Peter had looked over during dinner, it was important for a Sentinel to be familiar with his Guide’s body, so he could tune into his scent, heartbeat, and so on. The reverse was not true. If Peter could do this without thinking about Neal’s body _at all_ , so much the better. He could think about why they were doing this—to help Neal control his senses—and if even that proved too distracting, about something else entirely. 

Clouds, perhaps.

Step two was not jerking off as soon as he was finished. Doing that the first time had been a mistake—it just trained him to think of this as having something to do with sex, which it did not. 

On the other hand, sitting around in the living room waiting for his hard-on to go away, that would just give Neal more of a chance to notice, but retreating to his bedroom might look suspicious. Nearing the end of Neal’s massage, he decided on a strategy: he’d go out on the porch and call Elizabeth. Peter was reasonably sure he could manage to resist temptation on his own—he’d gotten plenty of practice as a Catholic teenager—but being in public and on the phone with his wife would provide extra insurance. Plus, if Neal did notice anything—well, he was on the phone with his wife. 

With a final stroke down Neal’s spine, Peter sat back on his heels. “How’s that?”

“Good,” Neal said. “Thanks, Peter.”

“No problem.” He looked at his watch—even though Neal was face-down and not looking at him—and said, “I should probably call El,” as if he had just thought of it. 

“Give her my love,” Neal said.

#

Neal wondered if Peter thought he was fooling anyone. Now that he knew how Peter smelled when he was turned on—thanks to the aftermath of their previous session of soothing, non-sexual touch—it was pretty hard to miss. Going to call El, in _deed_. 

At least Peter didn’t seem particularly freaked out about it. Neal wondered if he had read the sex chapter in _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_. He had, of course, stolen the Kindle back and read it shortly after learning that there _was_ one. It was a little less informative than Blair’s book, though more direct. While the _Dummies_ book emphasized that not all Sentinel-Guide relationships were sexual, and backed that claim up with lots of reassuring statistics, both books confirmed Neal’s experience that it was common for Sentinels to be attracted to Guides of both sexes, and vice-versa. But since Peter had, apparently, not spent much time around Sentinels, he might not have known. 

Neal wondered idly whether, if Peter _weren’t_ married, they might become part of the statistical majority of Sentinel-Guide pairs that _did_ have sex with each other. Before coming to Cascade, his answer would have been a definite _no_. Neal had always found Peter attractive—disturbingly so, considering what a schlub he could look like with his clothes on—but Neal wasn’t particularly interested in having sex with somebody who didn’t like him, and he doubted Peter was, either. Now, though…

Now, Peter was still married, so there was really no point speculating. If a frog had wings, it wouldn’t bump its ass when it hopped, as Moz had said once. 

It looked like Peter was planning to stay outside while he talked to Elizabeth, so Neal decided it was safe to get up and go into the bathroom. With Peter outside, he could have gone into his bedroom, he supposed, but Peter had already shown that he had no problem barging into Neal’s room without knocking if there was some sort of FBI emergency, so the bathroom was safer. 

It also smelled, faintly, of Peter. Not the heady scent of arousal and climax that Neal remembered so well, sadly, but a definite undertone, which Neal traced to the towel Peter had used to dry off that morning. Scent reservoir. 

As he stripped off and started to run a bath, Neal considered the possibilities. According to the articles Tim had given them, he was _supposed_ to be attuned to his Guide’s scent. Really, if Neal was shameless enough to ask, Tim would probably say that this was a good idea. Something about giving Peter’s scent emotional resonance for him, or something. 

Sure, that was plausible. 

Sitting down on the bathmat, Neal leaned back so that his head was against Peter’s towel and picked up his old friend the washcloth. It was still much, much hotter than it had any right to be, stroking his cock with the cloth that he knew Peter had used, but this time, the nubby texture of the terrycloth was a little…distracting. Not unpleasant, exactly, but different, and enough to keep him aware of where he was and what he was doing—and of a few nagging doubts that what he was doing was, in fact, a little creepy. 

Last time, he’d been so overwhelmed by Peter’s scent that he hadn’t needed, or indeed had time, to fantasize about anything. Now, though…stroking himself idly, he tried to think of a fantasy that would account for the sensation of damp terrycloth on his cock. It certainly didn’t feel anything like a mouth or a pussy, or even someone else’s hand. It felt pretty much like what it was.

Suppose, Neal thought, speeding up his strokes, the little lie he’d made up about Tim saying this was a good idea was true. And suppose it went further than that. Suppose Tim had given them a stack of articles saying that it was important for Sentinels and Guides to get each other off. And then suppose they had gotten past the embarrassment, and decided they had better at least give it a try. But Peter was a little shy about actually touching Neal’s cock, so—yes, now he was getting to the point—so they decided to start out like this, Peter rubbing him with a washcloth. 

If they really did that, a washcloth would be a stupid choice—maybe a silk pocket square; Neal had plenty of them--

So not the point, he reminded himself. The point was Peter jerking him off with a washcloth.

Maybe not even that. Maybe just _holding_ it, for Neal to thrust into. Yeah, that was it. Neal got up on his knees so he could try that, imagining Peter in front of him, looking sort of…embarrassed, but resolute and…kind—

Neal came. Fortunately, he was already sitting down, so at least he didn’t fall over this time. The tub was about full, so he climbed in, carefully _not_ thinking back on what had probably been the most embarrassing masturbatory fantasy in the entire history of time.

#

The Guide Studies party turned out to be on Friday evening. After asking around about what kind of “stuff” people usually brought to these parties and making a trip to the grocery store, Neal made four dozen crab and asparagus spring rolls. Peter borrowed a Crock-pot from someone and made a pot of tiny hot dogs in barbeque sauce. Neal seriously considered pretending not to know him.

The party was being held in the Guide Studies building. Neal had spent a fair amount of time on college campuses—though never as a legitimately-enrolled student—and had trouble imagining an academic department building with a particularly good party space. His low expectation seemed about to be fulfilled when he and Peter entered the building and walked through a corridor lined with classrooms and offices. Upon reaching the end, however, they emerged into a large atrium, two stories high and roofed with glass. It was full of couches and chairs arranged in conversational groupings around low tables, which looked as if they were part of the space’s normal furniture. Folding chairs and tables were more obviously additions for the party. 

It was hard to imagine how there could possibly be enough Sentinels and Guides in one city to need such a large space for the party. So far, there were only a few adults standing in a loose circled around a group of playing children, and a crew of what looked like college students setting up the folding chairs and tables and stringing Christmas-tree lights from the balcony railings under Jim’s direction.

Blair hurried over to them. “Hey, guys, glad you could make it!”

“Thanks,” Peter said, looking around.

“Don’t worry, more people will start showing up soon—the families always come pretty early, bedtime issues, you know. You brought food? Let me show you where we’re setting that up.”

He led them over to one side of the atrium, where a row of oblong folding tables stretched along the wall. A few deli trays, casseroles, and plates of cupcakes sat in lonely splendor on what seemed like acres of table. 

“You need to plug that in?” Blair asked, indicating Peter’s Crock Pot. “Good thing you’re early; we always run out of outlets. But right now, you can take your choice.” He gestured expansively at power strips that were set up every few yards along the tables. 

Peter selected one, and Neal put his spring rolls down far enough away from it to suggest that the two were not in any way associated. 

“What are those? Oh, spring rolls, good. We’re trying to keep the desserts down that way--” He pointed to the far end “—but any kind of organizational system never lasts long at these things. Oh! You’ll need index cards.”

“What do we need index cards for?” Peter wondered, as Blair hurried away in search of them. 

“No idea.”

When he came back with the index cards, Blair explained, “We used to try to keep the vegetarian and vegan stuff separate from the carnivores, but—well, like I said, that never lasts long, and then the people with allergies started wanting their own sections—chaos. So we gave up on that, and just label everything. Write down what your dish is, and list the ingredients—you don’t need to put amounts, but make sure you don’t leave off any major allergens.”

As they started to write, two college-age girls ran up. “Doctor Sandburg!” One said. “Rory wants to know where to put the--” They both started giggling.

“I’d better check this out,” Blair said. “I’ll be right back.” They worked on their index cards, and a few moments later, Blair returned. “Sorry, punch bowl emergency,” he said, picking up one of Neal’s spring rolls. “Drinks are over there, by the way.” He pointed the spring roll at a table that was piled high with boxed wine, punch, tubs of ice filled with beer and soda. It looked like enough to provide approximately five gallons of liquid refreshment for every person present, including the children. “What kind of hot dogs?” he asked, looking at Peter’s index card.

“Oscar Meyer, I think,” Peter said. 

“So, pork? Hang on.” Somehow managing to juggle a cup of punch, the spring roll, and a pen in only two hands, he added the word “PORK” to Peter’s index card. “Some people here don’t eat mammals, some only eat certain species of mammals…it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged. “Let’s see, who can I introduce you to….”

Before he could decide, another approached, calling, “Doctor Sandburg! Quick question!”

“We’ll be okay,” Neal said quickly. “You go ahead.”

Before he could begin to size up the crowd, though, Sophia darted out from the circle of adults, shouting, “Mr. Neal!”

“Hey, Sophia,” he said. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“My mommy’s here, too,” she said, grabbing his hand and beginning to tow him toward the adults. 

Neal looked back at Peter, but he just held up both hands and said, “I’ll go see if Ellison needs any help.”

In the absence of an entire toybox full of things to show him, Neal hoped that Sophia might lose interest in him fairly quickly, but instead, she seemed bent on showing him off to every child in the place. He wondered, at first, if all of the Guide children would have the same inexplicable fascination with him that Sophia seemed to, but fortunately, most of them responded to Sophia dragging him up and saying, “This is Mr. Neal!” with a polite, “Hi, Mr. Neal,”—or in the case of the smaller children, just a blank stare—and quickly returned to what they had been playing before Sophia interrupted them. Sophia was not the least bit daunted by this unenthusiastic response and kept on circulating. When she started repeating children, however, Neal said, “Oh, look, there’s your mom!” and went to talk to her. 

She was standing on the outskirts of a group of parents, looking like she wasn’t sure if she was welcome to join their reindeer games. “Hi, Neal!” she said, looking almost as happy to see him as Sophia had.

“Hi,” he said. “Blair didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“Oh…I wasn’t sure,” she said. “But he thought it would be nice for Sophia to meet other kids like her….”

“She seems to be having fun,” Neal observed. No longer having Neal to show off, she drifted off to join a group of girls who were doing something with brightly colored rubber bands. 

“Yes!” Amanda said. 

Conversation lagged. “I’m going to get a drink,” Neal decided. “Do you want anything?”

Amanda ended up going with him to the drinks table. After a quick perusal of the choices, Neal decided the white wine looked like the safest bet; Amanda dithered for a while and finally chose a pink zinfandel. 

As they made their way back to the group, Sophia broke away from the rubber band girls. “I’m thirsty, too,” she said. 

“All right, let’s get you a drink,” Amanda agreed, reversing course. “How about some of this nice pink punch?”

The punch was, indeed, highly pink, and given the amount of pink represented in Sophia’s parade of possessions, Neal thought she’d go for it, but she shook her head. “I want a drink like Mr. Neal’s.”

“That’s a grown-up drink, sweetie,” Amanda said. 

As Sophia’s face started to scrunch up in a manner suggestive of imminent screaming, Neal quickly perused the soft drink selection. Catching Amanda’s eye, he mouthed distract her, and mixed ginger ale and Sprite until they were the approximate color of white wine. 

Given the time constraints, it wasn’t a perfect forgery, but it was close enough to fool a five-year-old, fortunately, and Sophia accepted it without complaint. 

In the short time they’d been occupied at the drinks table, the crowd had approximately doubled. Neal spotted a few familiar faces from the police department and Clinic, and quickly recommended that Amanda talk to Selena, saying, “She does a class for kids; Sophia might like it,” before allowing Sophia to drag him off to the kids again. 

This time, she settled down with the rubber band girls to provide a more in-depth introduction, explaining how Mr. Neal could see the Doggy and Kitty at the museum, and had come to her house at the same time that Doggy and Kitty were visiting. The girls were duly impressed, and started showing him their rubber bands, which proved to be shaped like a variety of things—animals, cars, telephones, dinosaurs, princess crowns, and more that he couldn’t identify. After laying them out on the floor to demonstrate the shapes and conduct complicated trades, the girls put them around their wrists. Neal couldn’t see much point, since when the girls were wearing them, they were pretty much indistinguishable from normal rubber bands, but he supposed he must be missing something.

One thing was clear, however: Sophia had no rubber bands, and this was a problem. She had evidently been trying for some time to introduce her sunflower barrette and plastic bead bracelet into the rubber band economy, but the other girls were having none of it. “You can only trade bands,” the oldest girl, a blonde of about seven, said. “That’s how it works.”

“But I don’t have any,” Sophia said. 

“Get your mom to buy you some next time she goes to the store.”

“But I want to play now.”

The blonde girl shrugged. This was clearly not her problem.

Reaching for his wallet, Neal said, “Can she buy some from you?”

“No,” the blonde girl said. “You have to trade.”

He took out several dollar bills and casually fanned them out. “Are you sure? If you can buy them for money at the store, I don’t know why you can’t sell them here.”

The blonde girl stood firm, but several other girls looked interested. Neal managed to secure an assortment of bands at three for a dollar, which he suspected was significantly above the going rate, but the girls knew it was a seller’s market. 

Peter came over when he was in mid-negotiations over a trio consisting of a pink cupcake, blue unicorn, and red sports car. “Neal,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Are you by any chance fleecing these children out of their milk money?”

The girls giggled.

“No,” Neal said. “I’m the one getting fleeced here. She wants a dollar for these, and none of them even glow in the dark. It’s highway robbery.”

Peter, a befuddled expression on his face, knelt down to see what they were doing. “You’re paying actual money for those?”

“The cupcake one smells like strawberries,” the girl said. 

“Make it the cupcake, the unicorn, and the princess crown, and you’ve got a deal.” He knew he wasn’t going to get the princess crown—that one glowed in the dark and had glitter, making it the most coveted band on the floor. 

“The cupcake, the unicorn, and the guitar,” the girl countered.

Sophia whispered in his ear, “Get the apple!”

“Cupcake, unicorn, apple,” Neal relayed.

The girl considered. “Cupcake, apple, frog.”

Neal looked over at Sophia. She nodded. “Deal,” he said. They shook hands, Neal palming the dollar off on her. “Okay, I think you have enough now,” he told Sophia. “Go forth and trade. Check with me before you finalize anything,” he added. Sophia was a little younger than the others, and new to the world of rubber bands; the others might be able to trick her into doing something foolish, like trading the pink cupcake for the green army tank that nobody wanted because it was a boy one. 

“What are they doing?” Peter asked as the girls started up another trading session.

“Trading rubber bands,” Neal explained.

“Why?”

“I have no idea.” He had picked up pretty quickly on the characteristics that made one rubber band more valuable than another, but why anyone wanted any of them in the first place still escaped him.

Neal leaned back on his hands and looked around. The party was in full swing now; it was a little hard to see while he was sitting on the floor, but he thought there had to be close to a hundred people here—most of them Sentinels or Guides. 

“You doing all right?” Peter asked. 

“I could use some more wine,” Neal suggested, picking up his long-emptied plastic cup. 

“Yeah, well, you know where it is.” 

“Okay. If Sophia asks, tell her I’ll be right back.”

Neal made his way out through the crowd, noticing as he went that the party was really made up of several distinct groups. There were the parents and kids, of course, and the cops formed an equally obvious cluster. The graduate students were near the drinks table; the undergrads near the food. Professors and Clinic staff formed a sort of elongated blob, overlapping significantly with each other, and blurring around the edges with all the other groups. Idly, he considered what strategies he’d use if he wanted to infiltrate each group. 

Returning with his wine, Neal saw that Peter and Amanda had managed to snag some chairs, and were keeping a third for him. Good—now that he was stepping back to a purely advisory role in Sophia’s trades, he didn’t really need to be crawling around on the floor anymore. “Sophia wants to trade her red pencil for a purple star,” Peter reported. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m supposed to ask you.”

“Thank you, by the way,” Amanda said. “They don’t play with those bands at her school, so she didn’t have any yet.”

“No problem,” Neal said, catching Sophia’s eye and nodding. 

She and the other girl shook hands, apparently trying to palm off the bands as Neal had his dollar bills. Neither of them was very good at it, and they wound up dropping both of them. Picking hers up, Sophia ran over. “Mom, Mr. Neal, look, I got a star!”

“Nice,” he said. “Good trade.” With the star, the pink cupcake, and maybe a unicorn, she could probably get the princess crown if she wanted it. 

“It’s nice, sweetie,” Amanda said. 

“Casey, look, I got a star!” Amanda called to the blonde girl.

Casey came over and looked at it. “My star has glitter,” she said, pointing to one of the bands on her wrist.

“Mine glows in the dark.”

“I’ll trade you my glitter star for your star and your cupcake,” Casey offered.

Sophia looked up at Neal; he shook his head.

“Casey, be fair with the younger kids,” a nearby mother said. 

Neal beckoned Sophia closer. “Do you want her glitter star?”

“Yes, but I want to keep my glow-in-the-dark one, too,” she whispered back.

“Try offering her the purple guitar.”

Sophia did so. Casey frowned and said, “Let me see what else you have.”

Both girls plopped down on the floor and started to spread out their bands. Finished while Casey was still working on hers—Casey had approximately eight hundred thousand rubber bands—Sophia looked over at Neal. Or, more accurately, at his ankle, which, propped up on his knee, was level with her head. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at his tracking anklet.

“That,” Neal said slowly, “is a GPS tracking anklet.”

“What’s a GPS?” Sophia asked.

That was probably better than a lot of questions she could ask about it, but Neal struggled with where to begin. Would she know what a “satellite” was? Or did he need to start with the concept of “orbit”?

Casey said, “It’s the lady in the car that tells your mom or dad when to turn.”

“Oh, her,” Sophia said. “We call ours Glinda.”

That worked, Neal supposed.

“Does it talk?” Sophia asked, poking at Neal’s anklet. 

“No,” Neal said.

“What does it do?”

That was not such a good question, but was at least a little better than ‘Where did you get it?’ Aware that both mothers were listening, as well as Peter and the girls, Neal said, “It...helps Peter find me if I--” He’d been about to say ‘run away,’ but that would lead to more questions too, wouldn’t it? “—get lost.”

“Do you get lost a lot?” Sophia asked.

“Not anymore,” Neal said. “But a long time ago, before you were born, Peter hardly ever knew where I was.”

Sophia considered that. “My mom says, when we’re in the store I have to hold on to the shopping cart so I don’t get lost.”

“That’s a good tip,” Neal agreed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their curiosity satisfied, both girls turned their attention back to their rubber bands. Amanda, however, looked like she still had a few questions. Self-consciously, Neal tugged his pants cuff down over the anklet. 

“Do a lot of Sentinels wear GPS tracking anklets?” Amanda finally asked.

“No,” said Casey’s mother. “They don’t.”

“Right,” Peter said. “Between one thing and another, I guess we never mentioned Neal’s exact status with the FBI.”

“I don’t think you did,” Amanda said uncertainly.

“Okay, this is going to sound a little bit worse than it is,” Neal said. 

“It’s gonna sound a _lot_ worse than it is,” Peter countered. 

“I’m on work release from a federal penitentiary,” Neal said. 

“Oh,” Amanda said faintly. 

“Yeah.” Really not something you wanted to hear about the guy your daughter inexplicably looked up to.

“Do you really work for the FBI?” Amanda asked Peter.

“Casey,” her mother said, standing up. “It’s time to eat; put your toys away.”

“In a minute, mom.”

“Now, Casey Marie.”

“Yes. I’m an FBI agent. I arrested Neal, and then got him out of prison to work with me.” A gross oversimplification, but Neal didn’t blame Peter for not bringing up all the gory details. “He’s not dangerous.”

Casey and her mother headed toward the food tables, as fast as the girl could gather up her rubber bands. 

Sophia gathered up her bands more slowly, looking confused. 

“I, um, forged some bonds,” Neal explained. “Most people picture something worse when they hear ‘federal penitentiary.’”

“Oh.” This ‘oh’ was a little more relieved. “I guess that’s not so bad.”

“No, it’s not,” Neal agreed.

“It’s a federal offense,” Peter pointed out. “But it’s not as bad as some of the other ones.”

“Mommy?” Bands collected, Sophia stood up. “Can we go get something to eat, too?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

She grabbed Neal’s hand. “Come on, Mr. Neal!”

“Um,” Neal said, looking over at Amanda. 

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Maybe we should….”

“Why don’t you see if you can catch up with Casey,” Neal finally suggested. 

Sophia looked puzzled, but when her mother said, “Yes, let’s do that!” she agreed, and went off, with only a couple of backward looks in Neal’s direction.

“That went well,” Neal said sourly.

“We probably should have mentioned it sooner,” Peter said. 

“I’m going to get another drink.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

#

 

Peter was sitting by himself at a table, sipping a beer and nibbling at a plate of things he’d picked up from the buffet. Neal had been withdrawn and broody for about five minutes following his rejection by Amanda, but had bounced back quickly, ingratiating himself into a group of Guide Studies graduate students hanging out near the drinks table. Maybe he was glad to have escaped from the kiddie corner, no matter how it had happened—Peter had to admit he was, a little bit. 

On the other hand, he wasn’t as good as Neal was at striking up conversations with total strangers—he usually relied on El for that—and there weren’t many people here that he knew. After perusing the buffet—which had grown considerably since they arrived—Peter had drifted back to this spot where he could keep an eye on Neal.

“Oh, hi, Peter,” a vaguely familiar voice said. “Look, Kas, it’s Peter.” 

He looked up to see Dr. Temas, from the Clinic, and his Guide, both with their hands full of food and drinks. “Hi.”

“Mind if we sit here?” Temas asked, 

“Sure.”

They sat. “Been here long?” Temas asked. “We just got here.”

“A while,” Peter said. 

“Nice party,” Kas offered.

“Yes,” Peter agreed.

“It’s nice the museum got the Temple regalia back,” Temas added. “Even though I always thought it was kind of ugly.” He looked over his shoulder. “Blair isn’t around here anywhere, is he?”

“I think you’re safe,” Kas said. 

“You’re not supposed to say the artifacts are ugly around Sandburg?” Peter asked.

“Not unless you want a twenty-minute lecture on their cultural and historic significance, no,” Kas answered. 

They did the usual getting to know each other small-talk, which fortunately, Peter wasn’t too bad at once he got started. He learned that Kas, surprisingly, was a retired Army sergeant. He looked skeptically at Temas, who was about the least military-looking Sentinel Peter had ever seen. 

“I wasn’t,” Temas said. “The closest I came to the military was consulting at Walter Reed—that’s where we met. Sparks flew, et cetera.”

“I was on my way to either retirement or a desk job at the time anyway,” Kas added. “Disability thing.” Peter wondered about that—Kas didn’t look particularly disabled. He wasn’t rude enough to ask, but Kas must have either seen the question on his face, or knew from previous experience that people wondered. “I lost my leg in Honduras. Below the knee, with a good prosthesis it doesn’t affect me much, but running over rough ground is a problem, and that’s something you need to be able to do in my former line of work.” He shrugged. “Army life was getting a little old by then anyway.”

“So what do you--” Peter stopped short of asking what Kas did now, realizing belatedly that it might imply that being Temas’s Guide wasn’t a real job. 

Kas nodded. “Full time Guide—not that Angel is really delicate enough to need one, in a job where he doesn’t use his senses that much, but.” He shrugged. “I have hobbies, and he likes the attention.”

Angel nodded in easy acceptance of this assessment. 

Changing the subject, Kas said, “Who did you work with before Neal?” 

“Hm?” Peter wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

“We know a lot of the FBI Sentinels,” Angel explained. “DC’s kind of a small world, and we lived there for a long time.”

Oh. “Nobody. I mean, I didn’t work with a Sentinel before him.”

“Really?” said Kas. “That’s kind of unusual.”

He wasn’t rude enough to ask, either, but since Kas had fulfilled his curiosity about his disability, Peter figured he ought to do the same. “I was UnRegistered. For most of my career. But then Neal needed a Guide, so…” He shrugged.

“Oh, okay.” Kas nodded. 

“He seems nice,” Angel said. “Neal, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Yeah, he’s…nice.” That didn’t seem like exactly the right word, but Peter couldn’t think of a better one. 

#

Excusing himself from the grad student crowd, Neal went to browse the food tables. They were a nice group of kids, but there was really only so much to be said about Levi-Strauss, Foucault, and Richard Burton (‘the explorer, not the actor’) before it started to get repetitive. 

After selecting a few tidbits—and noticing that, while there was still half a pot of Peter’s hot dogs left, his spring rolls were all gone—Neal went looking for Peter. He found him at a table with Dr. Temas, his Guide, and several other people Neal didn’t know. 

He was about to join them when he realized they were talking about the museum robbery. A little better than another round of the-explorer-not-the-actor, maybe, but a topic of conversation he’d prefer to avoid. Before he could slip away, however, Temas noticed him. “Hi, Neal—Peter’s Sentinel,” he told the other people at the table. He started making introductions, and Neal had little choice but to sit down in the empty chair next to Peter. 

“Anyway,” continued a Sentinel Temas had identified as Bob Hardwick, a Guide Studies professor, “Apparently a rogue Sentinel was behind it.”

The museum’s natural history curator, Dora, objected, “Sentinel Ellison said it was a Guide—I was there that morning.”

“So was I,” Peter said dryly. “It was a Guide. There was a Sentinel involved, but his exact role is uncertain.”

“A Guide may have performed the actual removal of the objects,” Hardwick said, waving that aside as if it were unimportant, “but obviously, the Sentinel instigated the crime.”

“Why is that obvious?” Temas asked.

“Because despite what some scholars would argue,” Hardwick looked pointedly at the woman to his left, another Guide Studies prof, “the notion of Guide-led or egalitarian Sentinel-Guide relations is entirely a product of contemporary social forces. By definition, a rogue Sentinel would not be bound by those forces, so the chances of one taking direction from a Guide are functionally nonexistent. Once the crime is fully understood,” he pontificated, “it will become clear that the Sentinel, this Adler, was the mastermind, and the Guide woman was a tool, probably corrupted into his service.”

“I’m sure the FBI will fully explore that possibility,” Peter said. 

“As well it should,” Hardwick said. 

Neal knew it would be unwise to say that he knew for a fact Hardwick was wrong, because the Guide in question had suggested stealing the artifacts back when Neal was dating her, but he still sort of wanted to. 

Fortunately, before he could give in to temptation, Professor Margrave—the woman to Harwick’s left—said, “Hogwash. Not that I’m particularly eager to claim either one of them, mind you, but a Guide just as capable as a mundane of being a criminal without having been ‘corrupted’ by a Sentinel. For all we know, if anyone corrupted anyone, it could have been the other way around.”

Neal knew that hadn’t happened either, but only because he’d met Adler. If Kate had turned up with any other Sentinel, it would have been a possibility to consider. 

Hardwick smiled condescendingly and shook his head. “The existence of rogue Sentinels is well documented in the literature, but there are no reported cases of sociopathic Guides.”

“You don’t have to be a sociopath to steal from a museum,” Neal pointed out. As he could also testify from personal experience. 

“Mundanes don’t,” Hardwick agreed. “But Sentinels are instinctually driven to _protect the tribe_. Criminal impulses can only arise when those instincts are camouflaged by a pathological inability to recognize or care about the effects of their actions on others.”

“Really,” said Neal. 

“Yes. The criminal Sentinel is, in effect, a tribe of one, with all of the normal protective instincts turned instead to personal gain—which may be understood as a warped form of self-protection.”

“Is that so.”

“They’re born that way,” Hardwick continued. “Congenitally incapable of empathy. And empathy is, of course, the defining characteristic of a Guide. A Guide’s primary instinctive drive is to help and support a Sentinel—or, lacking a Sentinel, as so many are these days, anyone else. So if _their_ instincts are crippled, they simply fail to fulfill their natural role as Guides; they don’t become criminals. Someone lacking both empathy _and_ the instinctive drive to support a Sentinel is, definitionally, not a Guide at all.”

“Is _that_ so?” Peter said.

Temas spoke up. “So how is it that you protect the tribe, exactly, Bob?”

Hardwick sniffed. “Symbolically, of course. By advancing the flow of knowledge.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Blair, apparently on his way back getting a drink, stopped by their table. “What kind of essentialist bullshit are you flowing with today?”

Margrave explained, “He’s arguing that the museum robbery must have been masterminded by that Adler fellow.”

“ _Really_.” Blair pulled up a chair. “That’ll be news to Jim. Why’s that?”

Hardwick summarized his earlier explanation. 

“Even supposing we posit that these so-called protective instincts are present in normal Sentinels and lacking in criminal ones—” Margrave began.

“Camouflaged,” Hardwick corrected.

“Camouflaged, then. Even if we posit that, why are we assuming that criminal Sentinels are nevertheless fully equipped with the instinct to dominate Guides? If one set of so-called natural instincts is missing—camouflaged, hidden at the back of the cupboard, whatever you want to call it—where does the other one come from?”

“The distinction between the instincts being camouflaged versus completely absent, which you seem _intent_ on dismissing, is crucial to answering your question. The criminal Sentinel _possesses_ the normal instincts that accompany the Sentinel package, but only those consistent with self-interest are expressed. The desire to, as you put it, dominate Guides, which in _normal_ Sentinels takes the form of a symbiotic relationship, in criminal Sentinels is unconstrained by the impulse to protect.” 

“So can these criminal Sentinels of yours breathe fire, too?” Blair asked. “I mean, as long as you’re just making things up, you might as well go all the way.”

“Just because you and your _coterie_ believe there is no difference between Sentinels and mundanes--”

“There’s a difference,” Blair said. “Sentinels have heightened senses.”

“ _And_ an innate instinct to use their abilities for the good of the tribe,” Hardwick insisted.

“And, no,” Blair said. “Sentinels are _socialized_ to use their abilities for the good of the social group they belong to—as are Guides, and, for that matter, everyone else.”

“Your own Sentinel was naturally drawn to a protective role—first in the military, then in the police force—even though he didn’t know he was a Sentinel. How do you explain that?” Hardwick sat back and folded his arms.

“Right,” Blair said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because being a mundane—or thinking he was a mundane—born into an old Sentinel family would, naturally, make him completely immune to the social forces that lead Sentinels to military careers. I mean, his father, uncles, and brother all being in the military couldn’t _possibly_ have had anything whatsoever to do with it. It was all instinct.”

Hardwick apparently didn’t have a good answer to that one, because he changed the subject. “That doesn’t affect my larger point.”

“What _was_ your larger point?” Margrave asked. “I’ve forgotten.”

“He started out by saying that Adler must have planned the museum robbery and his Guide was a tool,” Temas said helpfully. “How we ended up here, I’m not sure.”

“Step one had something to do with all Sentinel criminals being sociopaths,” Neal added. “I’d still like to know where that came from.”

“It’s well-known,” Hardwick said dismissively. “If you’d ever opened an elementary Sentinel psychology textbook, you’d be familiar with it.”

“It’s a well-known _theory_ ,” Blair corrected. “If you claim that Sentinels have an innate instinct to ‘protect the tribe’—which is itself a contested theory—then you have to somehow explain the observable fact that some Sentinels commit crimes, and the easiest way to do that is to say that they’re all psychologically disturbed.”

“Yes, it’s debated in certain theoretical circles,” Hardwick acknowledged. “I’m sure Agent Burke can verify that for those concerned with the _practical_ aspects of abnormal Sentinel psychology, the sociopathy of criminal Sentinels is assumed.”

“ _Can_ he?” Neal turned to Peter.

“Whoa,” Blair said, before Peter could answer. “See the line, back there, Bob? You crossed it.”

“I’m sure Agent Burke has some relevant expertise to bring to the situation.”

Blair was speechless—and Neal knew him well enough by now to know what a rare thing that was.

“I think maybe he doesn’t know,” Temas spoke up. “’Cause I don’t think even Bob is quite _that_ much of a jerk.” He looked up at Kas as if for confirmation of this point.

“I certainly feel that I must have missed something,” Professor Margrave added.

“Yeah,” Blair said, recovering. “Sorry, Neal, I forgot that he probably didn’t know why that question was…inappropriate.”

“I don’t know why you’re apologizing to _him_ ,” Hardwick complained. 

“Yeah, no, you don’t,” Blair said. “And it’s none of your business, actually, so—how ‘bout those Jags, huh?”

Dora from the museum, who had not spoken up since the argument started, ventured that she didn’t think they’d make the playoffs. Nobody paid her the slightest bit of attention.

“I’m a convicted felon, is the thing,” Neal said, “and I would kind of like to know whether _my Guide thinks I’m a sociopath_ , but I’m not sure this is the time.” He stood up, deciding he’d spare everyone else the awkwardness of figuring out how to leave. “I’ll see you back at the house, Peter.”

#

Peter sat stunned as Neal stormed out of the party. As an FBI Agent, having some blowhard come up to him a party spewing pop-psych theories about the latest high-profile case was a professional hazard, like a doctor always being asked to identify people’s rashes. He’d thought this one was different only because of the minefield that was the entire subject of Kate. Hardwick didn’t know to tread lightly around it, and probably wouldn’t have even if he had known—and after Neal arrived, Peter hadn’t known whether shutting him up, and thus making an issue of it, would be worse than letting him keep blathering. 

So Hardwick’s focusing on Adler had seemed like a good thing. Peter even wondered if he might be right, much like a stopped clock that’s right twice a day, about Adler’s presumed sociopathy. Adler’s sailing away while Kate drowned, or appeared to drown, had struck all of the Cascade PD Sentinels as thoroughly depraved. Somehow, Peter had failed to realize that everything Hardwick was willing to say about Adler—knowing only the two facts that he was a Sentinel and had been involved in a museum robbery—he would presumably also be willing to say about Neal. 

Neal, clearly, had been fully aware of that fact. As had Sandburg, it seemed—he had once again leapt to Neal’s rescue while Peter did absolutely nothing. 

“Bob, you priceless ass,” said Professor Margrave.

“Funny thing about sociopaths,” Hardwick said, “they’re often very quick to take offense.” He shrugged, as if to say, _what can you do_?

“He’s not a sociopath, you fucking asshole,” Peter said. 

“You should probably tell him that,” Sandburg said.

“I will,” Peter said. It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation to have, but they’d have to have it. 

Sandburg stood up. “Can I see you over here for a minute?”

Peter joined him in a quiet corner. “What?”

“I realize you’re new to being a Guide and all, but don’t you think you should go talk to him sometime _before_ the slow heat-death of the universe?”

Knowing Sandburg a little better now, Peter was able to interpret what he meant. “You think I should go after him?”

“Yes.”

“He said he didn’t want to talk about it right now,” Peter said uncertainly.

“Right, that’s one of those things you’re not supposed to take literally.” Sandburg shook his head. “Come on.” Several people tried to catch Sandburg’s attention on their way out, but he ignored them. Outside, he started off in the direction of the Clinic and cottages. “You guys didn’t drive, did you?”

“No.”

“Is there anywhere else he might be going, other than home?”

“I can check where he is,” Peter said, taking out his phone and bringing up the tracking anklet app. Neal was about three blocks ahead of them, and moving fast. He showed Sandburg the screen.

“Okay, that’s kind of…Orwellian,” he said. “But handy, I suppose.”

Peter thought about pointing out all the good reasons he had to be able to tell where Neal was at any moment—the first one being, so he’d know if he was doing anything illegal, the second, so that he could give him an alibi if he hadn’t—but instead, just shook his head and started walking.

Even though he was walking fast enough to lose Sandburg, Peter didn’t actually catch up to Neal until they were nearly to the cottage. When he did, Peter tried to slip the phone into his pocket before Neal saw it, but he didn’t quite succeed.

“I’m going home, Peter, like I said. You don’t have to check up on me.”

“I’m not. I thought we should talk.”

“Great.” Neal resumed walking.

“Neal, that guy was an asshole. You’re obviously not a sociopath.”

“How would you know?” Neal asked, without looking at him.

“Because I know you. You’re—you’re not like that. You care about Kate, and June, and that weird guy who sends you packages, and--” _And me_ , Peter thought, but couldn’t quite say. “Hardwick doesn’t know what he’s talking about—Sandburg and that other professor both know he was talking out his ass.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t know me, either.”

Were they seriously having an argument about whether or not Neal was a sociopath—with Neal taking the “pro” side? “You’re—dramatizing, just like that ‘ruining my life’ thing. Yeah, you’re not the…most ethical person in the world; that doesn’t make you a sociopath. Settle down.”

In answer, Neal took out his own phone and brought up the web browser. “Well, you tell me if any of this sounds familiar. ‘One. Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors, as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest. Two. Deception, as indicated by repeatedly lying, use of aliases, or conning others for profit or pleasure.’ Three, four, and five, I’m okay on…’Six. Consistent irresponsibility, as indicated by repeated failure to sustain consistent work behavior. Seven. Lack of remorse.’ That’s the official definition of Antisocial Personality Disorder, which is what they’re calling sociopathy these days.”

It wasn’t lost on Peter that all four of the things Neal had just mentioned were things Peter had, specifically and repeatedly, criticized him for. The one about irresponsibility might be arguable if Peter wanted to claim that a four-year crime spree counted as ‘consistent work behavior,’ but he had a feeling that if he tried, Neal would remind him of all the times he’d insisted that nothing Neal did prior to his work release counted as a job. “Don’t be stupid,” Peter said, realizing as he said it that this was not the El-approved response to the situation. He should try to be understanding, no matter how idiotic Neal was being. 

“Great, now I’m stupid and a sociopath. Glad to hear it.”

“Oh, please,” Peter said. “Look up any disease on the internet, and you can convince yourself you have it.” True, but probably still not understanding enough. 

“This isn’t Psych 101 syndrome.” They had reached their cottage; Neal sat on one of the porch chairs, not looking at Peter, even when Peter sat down in the other chair next to him. “He said—some Sentinels are born wrong.”

“That could be as full of shit as everything else he said, and even if it’s not, there’s no evidence you’re one of them.” All right; he was getting a little warmer there. 

“My dad was,” Neal said. 

Peter’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level as he wondered what Neal’s father had done to him.

“He was a Sentinel, and a cop. My mother always told me he died in a shootout with some drug dealers when I was five. When I was a teenager, his Guide told me the truth. There was a shootout—between a Latino gang and the Italians my dad was working for. He was shot, but he didn’t die; he flipped on the Mob and went into witness protection. Couldn’t even pick a side and stick with it; whoever made him a better offer, that’s who’s side he was on.”

Peter tried to make sense of this information. “You’re getting this, at best, third-hand,” he pointed out. “Sometimes, in an undercover operation, things get…messy.”

“He wasn’t undercover; he was _crooked_. Ellen—his Guide—said she thinks he started out just tipping the Mob guys off about where there was going to be a sting so they could stay out of the way, things like that. Then he started manipulating evidence, either to clear them or to incriminate their rivals. By the end he was killing their rivals and saying they were armed and resisting arrest. She had no idea at the time,” he added. “They pieced all this together later, after he ‘died.’ I grew up hearing he killed eight bad guys—and I’m sure they were bad guys, but he _murdered_ them.”

“Even if he did,” Peter said, “you’re not him.”

“Yeah, I’m just his son. I got the senses from him. What else did I get?”

“Not a propensity for murdering drug dealers,” Peter said. “I’d have noticed that.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“No,” Peter agreed. “This is--” He stopped himself from saying _insane_. “I’m sorry about your dad.” That, he was pretty sure, was one right thing to say. 

Neal shook his head. “Not really the point, Peter.”

“I can see how your dad being…I can see how that would rattle you.” Peter worried about ending up like his dad, even though, all told, that wouldn’t be so bad. “But you don’t have to be like him, and you _aren’t_ , so--” Okay, he didn’t have a way to finish that sentence other than _stop being stupid_. “You’re fine.”

Neal, instead of answering, looked off into the darkness beyond the porch. “What do you want, Blair?”

“Um, we came to make sure you guys were okay,” Sandburg said, stepping into view.

“He did,” Ellison said, joining him. “I came to drag him away if you’d rather he minded his own business.”

Before Neal could send them away, Peter said, “If you think you can help convince Neal he’s not a sociopath, you’re welcome to try.” 

Sandburg dug his elbow into Ellison’s side and bounced up onto the porch, hitching himself up onto the railing. “You’re not a sociopath. Bob’s a dick who doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he said as Ellison leaned against the post by the stairs.

“I already tried that,” Peter said. It was pretty clear, from what Neal had said about his father, that this was something he’d thought about before Hardwick’s tactless remarks.

“That’s okay,” Sandburg said. “I’ve got more. Shall I start with the personal perspective or the academic?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Peter said.

“Okay. First off, while I don’t believe anyone’s born evil, I’ve met more than my share of people who were…broken, that way. You can tell.”

“How many is more than your share?” Neal wanted to know.

“Two. Both of them tried to kill me, so there’s another clue right there. You’re not planning to try to kill me, are you?”

“No,” Neal said.

“Good. And another thing is, if you actually _were_ , we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Struggling with moral choices, making bad ones and rationalizing them, making bad ones and _knowing_ they’re bad ones, doesn’t make you a monster; it makes you human.”

“Sentinels are supposed to be different,” Neal pointed out, sounding unconvinced. 

“Hardwick would agree with you,” Sandburg answered. “And to understand why he’s wrong, we have to back up and talk about some Guide Studies 101 stuff—really, social sciences 101. Constructivism versus essentialism. Constructivists believe that categories—gender, race, sexual orientation, for example—are social constructs. There may be some biological basis for them, and for Sentinels there obviously is, but what it _means_ to be a Sentinel, or to be a man or a woman, or a white person or a black person, whatever, is shaped by societal forces. Essentialists believe that there is such a thing as a fixed Sentinel nature, or essence. Or female nature, black nature, et cetera. Hardwick’s about as hardcore an essentialist as you can be.”

“And you’re not, I take it,” Peter said.

“No, I’m about as far out on the other end of the spectrum,” Sandburg admitted. “Except I’m willing to adjust my position in light of evidence, which is not something I’ve ever noticed Bob doing. When I teach Guide Studies 101, at this point I usually have the kids start listing things that are popularly believed to be part of the essential nature of Sentinels—they’re usually physically adept, courageous, drawn to careers like the military and police. Then we unpack that one, talking about how it covers Sentinels’ supposed preference for hierarchical structures, for having clearly-defined friends and enemies, for being in a protective role, stuff like that. And then some wiseass in the back says, ‘But there are Sentinels like that.’ And I say, Yes, absolutely, there are. But there are also mundanes like that, and Sentinels that aren’t. Everything that’s considered part of the ‘Sentinel package’ in contemporary Western culture is part of the range of normal human variation. Sometimes we also talk about how it’s part of the Western _masculinity_ package, too, but that’s not germane right now. The point is that Sentinels vary, just like everyone else. You know Angel, right?”

“Doctor Temas?” Neal said. “Yes. He’s…not exactly a typical Sentinel.”

“No, if you think there’s such a thing as a typical Sentinel, he’s definitely not it. But he’s just as much a Sentinel as Jim is, or you are.”

“Because he has heightened senses,” Peter said, remembering something Sandburg had said earlier, back at the party.

“Right. That’s the only _real_ essential quality of a Sentinel. The rest of it--” He made a dismissive gesture. “Now, the next thing the wiseass in the back usually asks is, ‘Why does it matter if this stuff is innate or culturally determined?’ And my answer is usually pretty abstract, with all of the concrete examples coming from the civil rights movement, which as far as a Guide Studies freshman is concerned might as well be the dark ages. But, as I’ve just learned, one reason it matters in the 21st-century United States is because of the way we treat so called ‘rogue Sentinels.’ The idea of rogue Sentinels has been around for a long time—basically, if you think that Sentinels have an essential nature, and that it’s _better_ than everyone else’s, which is what the list of ‘typical Sentinel traits’ boils down to, then the observable fact that Sentinels can be as flawed as everybody else cries out for some sort of extraordinary explanation, which is where you get your sociopathic rogue Sentinels from. The presumption is actually equally insulting to all Sentinels—it assumes that none of you are capable of moral choices, and just instinctively act in either pro-social or antisocial ways. Mundanes can have complex and varied reasons for choosing to become a police officer or a bank robber, but Sentinels are only acting out some kind of inborn, instinctive destiny. Total bullshit.”

“Sentinels do have instincts, though,” Peter pointed out. Everyone knew that, from the FBI human resources Sentinel liaison to _Sentinels and Guides for Dummies_ , on up to Sandburg himself, who after all had indicated that his own Sentinel was territorial about crime scenes. 

“Sure they do,” Sandburg agreed. “But so does everybody else. I did a really neat study on territorial instincts with a junior seminar a couple of years ago. We designed a survey to measure territorial responses—basically, a list of scenarios that might evoke a territorial response. I think they ranged from something like, someone goes into your office when you’re not there, sits in a guest chair, and waits for you—that was at the weak end, obviously—to finding someone you’ve never seen before in your life in your kitchen making a sandwich out of your food. Pretty much anybody would have a problem with that, right?” He shrugged, and didn’t wait for an answer. “The respondents were supposed to mark which items they’d have a problem with, and rate the strength of the response from one to five. The kids administered the survey to subjects—Sentinels, Guides, and mundanes—and put the responses on a scatter plot. That’s the kind of graph where you put a dot for each subject; we used different colors for Sentinels, Guides, and mundanes. The Sentinel dots were mostly clustered near the high end—the upper-right quadrant—but there was considerable variation, and there were plenty of mundane subjects in the same section of the plot. The strongest territorial response was a Sentinel, but there were several mundanes who were close, and the weakest response was also a Sentinel.”

“Pretty sure that was Angel,” Ellison put in. 

“Yeah, so am I,” Sandburg said. “Anyway, it actually measured responses, not instincts, since all of the subjects were influenced by culture, but it shows that even when we’re talking about something that most people think of as pretty basic Sentinel behavior is highly varied, and overlaps with the full range of human responses. You see pretty much the same thing if you measure any of the other ‘typical Sentinel traits’—some clustering, but a lot of variation.”

“What about protective instincts?” Neal asked. 

“Same thing. Sentinels do respond, without a lot of conscious thought, when they see a threat to someone whose safety they’re concerned about. But so does everybody else—you threaten somebody’s kid, spouse, or best friend, and they’re not going to have to stop and do a cost-benefit analysis about whether to respond to that threat or not. Exactly _how_ they respond, and whether or not it’s an effective response, is a matter of individual psychology, experience, training, and societal expectation—and it’s exactly the same for Sentinels.”

“But for Sentinels, it doesn’t have to be their spouse or kid,” Neal pointed out. “They’re supposed to protect the whole tribe.”

“Right,” Sandburg said. “And there are plenty of other people who protect the whole tribe who _aren’t_ Sentinels. You can say that those people, Sentinel or not, have stronger protective instincts than other people if you want to--don’t tell Hardwick I said so, but in a sense it doesn’t actually matter. To say that _anyone_ has an innate, biological basis for feeling protective toward a whole country, or even a city like Cascade, is ridiculous. In the environment in which humans evolved, the ‘tribe’ was a group of about twenty to fifty individuals, mostly biological and affective kin. Social forces make it possible for us—for humans in general—to extend the way we feel about our immediate tribe to a city, country, or even the whole population of the planet, but that’s self-evidently cultural, not natural. And it’s generally a good thing when we do, but it’s not an instinctive response, and not doing that isn’t a sign that there’s something seriously wrong with you. Most people do, at one time or another.”

“There’s a difference between not feeling protective towards everybody and doing…bad things,” Neal said. “Hurting people.”

“You don’t hurt people,” Peter said. Neal’s crimes were all nonviolent; usually, his victims never even saw him.

“I don’t know about that,” Sandburg said. “I mean, you could make the case that stealing from people hurts them. And, socially, that’s a problem and you shouldn’t do it. But ‘protecting the tribe’ often means protecting it against _other people_ —hurting them, taking their stuff if your tribe needs it more, or even just wants it. If you do believe that there’s such a thing as a Sentinel nature, there’s no way it would be outside of that nature to ever do anything harmful to anybody—they’d be completely useless to their tribes if it were. Is there anyone you’d consider it morally inappropriate to steal from?”

“Yes,” Neal said. 

“Well, then, even if you think there’s such a thing as a rogue Sentinel, you aren’t one.” He shrugged again. “Those two people I talked about—one of them was a Sentinel; one was a mundane, which goes to show what I said about human variation—you could say that they were tribes of one, like Hardwick said. However they got that way, they weren’t capable of making moral choices on a level that recognized that other people exist as something other than objects to be manipulated. Most people can, whether they’re criminals or not. You can, and if you’re unhappy with the implications of the moral choices you’ve made—and you probably should be—Dr. Sandburg’s prescription is that you start making different ones.”

Peter would probably have hesitated to make that parting shot, but Neal seemed to accept it—or possibly was just worn down by the only person Peter had met who could out-talk Neal himself. After a few more minutes, Ellison and Sandburg left to return to the party, and Peter and Neal went inside.

“Feeling better?” Peter asked. 

Neal nodded, then shrugged. “I guess.”

“I could pull some files on your dad, if you…if it would help to know more.” Without a case-related reason, Peter wouldn’t be able to find out where he was now, but the records on the investigation that led to him going into the Program were probably accessible. 

“No. I know as much about him as I want to.”

“Okay,” Peter agreed. 

“Thanks anyway.” Neal turned toward his room.

“Should we—we could do backrubs,” Peter suggested. The evening had probably been stressful, and that was what they were supposed to be for.

Neal shook his head. “I just want to go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Peter nodded. “Good night, then.” 

“Night.” 

Peter went to bed, too, not long after, but laid awake for a long time wondering if Neal was really all right, and if he’d managed not to screw that up too badly. 

#

In the morning, Neal was a little embarrassed about the evening before. He knew he wasn’t a sociopath, really. Sometimes, late at night, when he was feeling low, he wondered about why his father had gone wrong, and whether the same thing would happen to him. But it wasn’t something he needed to make his co-workers reassure him about. It was stupid, like Peter said.

He hoped that Peter would let the whole thing drop, and it seemed at first like he might, but when they went to their appointment with Tim, almost as soon as they sat down Peter said, “Apparently Neal thinks he’s a sociopath.”

Tim nodded. “I heard a little bit about that.”

“Yeah, I’m over it,” Neal said. 

He wasn’t terribly surprised when Tim didn’t let him off that easily. “Is there a little more to this than Bob Hardwick being…well, being himself?”

Peter explained about Neal’s father, another topic Neal figured he wouldn’t have a chance to avoid, if Peter insisted on bringing up the other thing. 

Tim’s first question, when Peter finished, was, “What do you remember about him?”

“Not much. He ‘died’ when I was five, and even before that, he wasn’t around much. I remember it being a…special occasion, if he got home before my bedtime. Between his job, conspiring with gangsters, and the affair he was having with Ellen, I guess he was pretty busy.”

“Your father had an affair with his Guide?” Peter asked.

Right; Neal supposed he hadn’t mentioned that part before. “Yeah. She said—when we talked when I was a teenager—that Mom knew and was okay with it, but I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think she’d lie, but he could have lied to her. To both of them. I don’t know.” The next logical question, he supposed, was whether that had anything to do with Neal’s fears that being his Guide would be bad for Peter’s marriage. He definitely didn’t want to talk about _that_ , so he said, “So I didn’t really know him. But Mom always said I was just like him.”

“What do you think she meant by that?” Tim asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Neal shrugged. Was he ‘just like’ the stories she told, where Neal’s father was a hero, or ‘just like’ he really was? “I look a lot like him. I was—you’ll think this is funny, Peter—I was going to be a cop, like him. That’s why Ellen told me the truth about him; she knew if I joined the force, eventually I’d hear the real story.”

“Funny,” Peter repeated. “So is _that_ why you decided to be a criminal? So you wouldn’t be…a cop like him?”

“Sort of. I thought—well, I thought if I really was just like him, the last thing I should be was a cop. That way…I don’t know. I thought it was better to just be a criminal than a dirty cop.” It had made sense at the time. “Not that I ran away from Ellen’s place and immediately knocked over a bank or anything. I just kind of bummed around for a while. Did a little bit of shoplifting, picked tourists’ pockets, that kind of thing. Try to figure out what to do next. Then I hooked up with this guy who was looking for a partner and thought I had potential. He took me to Europe, and taught me a lot about gambling and forgery…and food and liquor. Not art, so much—I already knew about that. But he was into, you know, caviar and cognac; I thought that was really sophisticated.” 

“Keller,” Peter said. 

Neal glanced over at him in surprise. He hadn’t realized Peter knew about that part of his life. “Yeah, that was Keller. I looked at him and thought, okay, that’s who I’ll be when I grow up. Then we were doing this four-man job, and as we were leaving, one of the guys said he thought he’d left his passport back at the hotel. Keller took out a gun and shot him. So I came back to New York.”

“Why did you do that? Because you thought he’d kill you too, if you made a mistake?” Tim asked.

“No.” Neal wasn’t stupid enough to make that mistake, or to tell Keller about it if he did. “I didn’t want to be like him anymore. He was just a…thug with expensive tastes.”

“And you’re not like that,” Peter said. 

Neal shrugged. “I knew I could do better than that, yeah. I started working with this other guy—the one who taught me to crack safes.” He paused to see if Peter knew his name, too—or a name, anyway. When he didn’t say anything, Neal continued, “He taught me a lot of stuff, too, and _he’s_ okay, a real stand-up guy. A little…quirky, but I could do a lot worse than to be like him.”

“‘J. Edgar Hoover’?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, that’s him.” Good; the FBI clearly didn’t know much about Moz, which was how Moz wanted it. 

Tim paged through his notes. “This is interesting. During our intake appointment, we talked—or started to talk—about how you felt about your job with the FBI, ‘working for the enemy.’ You said the FBI wasn’t the enemy; bad criminals were.”

“Yes.” He remembered saying that.

“I didn’t write it down, but I think you mentioned the Mob in that context.”

“Probably,” Neal agreed. “I’d put Keller in that category, too.”

“So your father worked with the enemy.”

“I guess.” If you wanted to get all Freudian about it. 

“Wait,” Peter said. “How _do_ you feel about working for the FBI? You said it bothers you that your dad switched sides, twice. Do you feel like you….” He trailed off.

“No.” It was hard to explain exactly how what he’d done—making a deal with the Feds to keep himself out of prison—was different from how his father had done the same thing, but it was. “If I helped you arrest people I worked with for jobs I did with them, that would be wrong.” That was it; he’d switched sides, but he’d done it without betraying anybody who had reason to trust him. It _was_ different. 

“Okay,” Peter said.

“Okay?” Neal had expected an argument—that if his friends were criminals, he ought to be all right with informing on them. 

“Obviously I’d rather you didn’t withhold evidence,” Peter elaborated. “But as long as these crimes happened before we started working together, I can live with you…not volunteering anything.”

“Fair enough,” Neal agreed. 

Tim had some follow-up questions, and skirted pretty close to the issue of whether Peter thought he was a bad person or not—which Neal still didn’t want to hear the answer to—but didn’t quite ask. Neal was quite pleased that he’d successfully evaded both that question and the subject of his father’s affair with Ellen. 

#

 

“ _This_ is where the Clinic has you staying? It’s lovely,” Elizabeth said as they walked up a path to a small, lilac-covered cottage. She had been expecting something more institutional. 

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Peter said. “I’m still not sure how Neal pulled this one off.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Neal said, from where he was walking a few feet behind them. 

Before El could give Peter a disapproving look—was he _still_ accusing Neal of wrongdoing all the time?—Peter said, “I know you didn’t.”

Neal didn’t answer that; El glanced back at him. His expression was quiet and serious, but when he saw her looking, he flashed her a big, fake-looking smile. She smiled back.

Peter unlocked the front door and held it open for her. She went inside, noticing that the cottage was just as lovely inside as out. It was open and airy, with a sitting area opening onto a dining area, then a kitchenette. Doors to either side led, presumably, to bedrooms and bathroom. As she got her bearings, Elizabeth heard Peter say, “Are you coming in? Geez; you’re like a cat.”

Neal came inside and stood by the door, holding the carryon bag he’d insisted on taking for her in both hands, looking like he was the guest, and unsure of his welcome to boot. 

That wasn’t good. At the airport, after coming down the ramp and greeting Peter with an enthusiastic kiss, she’d looked around for Neal and found him standing a few yards away, looking at the ceiling. She’d assumed at the time that he was hoping to disassociate himself from the public display, like a teenager trying to pretend he’d never met those embarrassing adults in his vicinity. On the ride from the airport, he’d been quiet—but he’d been sitting in the back of the car, and she and Peter had a lot to catch up on, so she hadn’t thought much of it. 

Now, though….now it was looking more like Neal didn’t think he belonged here, or didn’t belong with Peter now that she was here. Something like that. 

Shutting the door behind him, Peter said, “Here, let me take that,” and reached for her carryon. Taking it from Neal, he added to her, “Our room’s this one—I’ll just put these….” He disappeared into the first bedroom for a moment. Returning, he looked at Neal, who was still standing by the door. “You okay?”

Neal came to life. “Yeah! Yeah, fine. I’ll just—you know what, you guys probably want some privacy.” He dodged past Peter, into the other bedroom, and shut the door behind him.

Elizabeth looked over at Peter, who shrugged and said, “Mm, privacy,” pulling her in for a kiss. 

# 

Someone knocked on Neal’s door, then opened it. “Neal?” Peter said. “Dinner.”

Neal got up from where he’d been lying on the bed, trying to read. It had been a tremendous relief when the sounds and smells of Peter starting to cook the pot roast he’d been talking about all weekend replaced those of Peter and Elizabeth making out just steps from Neal’s bedroom. It was no surprise that, as a healthy and affectionate couple, Peter and Elizabeth would be having what Neal decided to think of as ‘marital relations’ during this visit. He had worried, a little, about how he might react to the sensory evidence of that fact. According to the reading he’d done, a territorial freakout was entirely possible. Completely out of line, given the parameters of their relationship, but possible. 

Going into the main room, Neal wondered if he should fix himself a plate and go back to his room. Peter and Elizabeth didn’t need him getting in the way during the limited time they had together—it was bad enough that they’d be sacrificing their afternoons to go to the Clinic. 

On the other hand, not eating with them might look like he was resentful of Elizabeth being here, which he most definitely was not; she had every right to be here. Where Peter was. 

And the table was set with three places, so that answered that question. He’d eat with them, be funny and charming, and then go back to giving them privacy. Plan.

“So that’s the famous pot roast,” he said as Peter approached the table with a platter. “It looks….” Neal meant to say something complimentary, but words failed him. On the platter were chunks of meat that had been boiled until they lost all structural cohesion, heaped together with dingy orange and beige lumps of carrot and potatoes. 

“It’s not very photogenic,” Elizabeth said.

“Trust me,” Peter said.

Neal recovered. “It smells good,” he said hopefully. 

“If it wasn’t good, I’d have made Peter take us out to dinner,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t worry.”

He wasn’t sure if he would have taken Peter’s word for it, but if _Elizabeth_ thought it was good, maybe it would be all right.

Elizabeth was pouring wine, and Neal took a grateful sip as he sat down. Peter was scooping meat, potatoes, and carrots onto each of their plates, following it up with generous dollops of brownish gravy. Neal was reminded of a school cafeteria. Or a prison one.

But it actually did smell good, he reminded himself. Still, he waited until he saw Elizabeth take her first bite, with every sign of genuine enthusiasm, before trying it himself. 

It was actually…good. Tender, definitely—so tender it practically fell apart on the fork. The flavor was very simple—the main notes were beef, carrot, black pepper, and salt—but intense and satisfying. The slightly earthy red that Elizabeth paired it with—Neal was almost certain Peter hadn’t chosen it—was an excellent choice. “This is—actually really good.” He had a feeling his tone betrayed an unflattering amount of surprise.

“And you doubted me,” Peter said smugly. 

“Honey,” Elizabeth said, “everyone doubts you about the pot roast, at first. I’m pretty sure even Satchmo was dubious.”

As they ate, Elizabeth talked about some of her recent jobs, and they talked a little about the art cache. “Yesterday, we found something I’m pretty sure is a lost Vermeer,” Neal remarked.

“Really?” Elizabeth asked.

“If it’s not, I’d like to meet the forger,” Neal said with a shrug. “There are still some tests I want to do.”

“Can I see it?” She glanced over at Peter. “Peter?”

“It’s still in the lab,” Neal pointed out. If it had been sealed in an evidence crate, they’d need some kind of excuse to take it back out, but as it was, nobody would ever know.

“All right, I suppose,” Peter said. “But I’m not really supposed to be showing evidence to civilians.”

“We could smuggle her in,” Neal suggested. “The loading dock around back is not very well secured.” He’d noticed that on their second visit to the police station. “After that, it’s just a matter of avoiding the security cameras on the way to the labs—I might need to work that part out on a piece of paper. And Peter has an access card, so once we get there, we’re in.”

“Or we could just walk in the front door,” Peter said dryly. “I’m an FBI agent; no one’s going to stop us.”

“Oh, right,” Neal said. “Social engineering. Look like you’re supposed to be there, and nobody will ask any questions.”

“I don’t know; Neal’s plan sounds more exciting,” Elizabeth said. 

“Exciting isn’t really a positive when you’re planning a con.” He must be spending too much time hanging around Mozzie, Neal thought. He was picking up on his taste for the Baroque. 

“It’s not a _con_ ,” Peter said. 

“You just said you’re not supposed to be doing it,” Neal said. “And you’re doing it anyway. It’s a con. Just a little one.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t, then,” Peter said. 

“Peter,” El said, with a sigh. “Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud.” Neal knew there was something he liked about her. 

“I don’t want to set a bad example for Neal,” he said.

Well, that was no good—Neal hadn’t meant to deprive Elizabeth of the chance to see the maybe-probably-likely Vermeer. “Elizabeth, didn’t you mention once that you know a fair amount about seventeenth-century Dutch furnishings?”

She caught on quickly. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m an expert, but I did a paper on them in college.”

“Oh, well, in that case, you should have a look at the sideboard in the background of this painting. Tell us whether you it looks legit or not.”

“I could do that,” she agreed brightly. 

Now it was Peter’s turn to sigh.

After dinner, Elizabeth said she wanted to have a walk around the campus. “Neal, why don’t you come and show me around, while Peter’s busy with the dishes?”

Neal had been about to suggest the opposite, but Elizabeth seemed to know what she wanted, so he didn’t argue. Even though he had a moment’s panic that she wanted to talk about his obvious and inappropriate attraction to her husband. 

They started out with a circuit of the Clinic garden. “You and Peter seem to be settling in,” she observed. “Things are a lot less tense than the last time we all had dinner together.”

“Yeah,” Neal said. That was a slightly more comfortable topic than the one he’d been fearing. “Yeah, we’re…doing pretty well.” Their feet crunched softly on the graveled pathway. “He’s a stand-up guy. I always knew that.”

“Are you still worried about ruining our marriage?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I’m…getting more confident that we can figure something out that works for all of us.” At least, he would be confident if not for what he decided to think of as the Backrub Problem. With Elizabeth in the same time zone, it was painfully obvious that _jerking off while thinking about Peter_ was nothing other than creepy and inappropriate. 

“That’s good,” she said, slipping her arm into his. 

“I’m getting a little bit spoiled out here,” he added. “You know, with the cottage and everything.” Everything including having Peter all to himself. He didn’t mention that. 

He could manage to avoid the actual jerking-off part, but he couldn’t do anything about the arousal. And the fact that Peter responded the same way didn’t make it any better. Maybe they could keep a lid on things during Elizabeth’s visit, but they were still supposed to do backrubs two or three times a week after they went back to New York. 

“The cottage is lovely,” she agreed. 

“It is,” he said. “I guess Sentinels can be fussy, and they’re used to indulging them. Us. I’m not going to argue with them about it.” He grinned and shrugged. “Have you seen the whirlpool tub yet? Make sure you don’t miss that.” That wasn’t getting him _quite_ as far from the topic of sex as he would have liked, but it was a start. 

She laughed. “I’ll have to try it.”

He nodded. “I don’t even have one of those in New York.” He thought June’s own bathroom might, but his apartment just had a shower. Which, he reminded himself, he didn’t have to share with a hundred possibly violent other guys. He’d managed to be left alone in prison, but it still wasn’t exactly relaxing. 

“Peter might be almost sorry to come home,” she said. 

“I’m sure he won’t be,” Neal said gallantly. _He_ would be, but that wasn’t really the point. “I’m glad you could come out,” he said instead. He was—he did like Elizabeth, and they needed to figure out how they were all going to live, once this West-coast Idyll was over. 

“So am I,” she said. “Is that the famous museum?”

“Yes,” Neal said. They’d left the garden and started up the pathway toward the center of campus, which took them near the museum. “You’ll have to alibi me if anything happens.”

“Should we go in?” she asked.

“I think they’re about to close,” Neal answered, checking his watch. 

As they passed the main entrance, two familiar figures came out. “Mr. Neal!” Sophia yelled, running down the sidewalk toward them. 

Neal winced slightly. “Hi, Sophia,” he said, stepping out of her enthusiastic hug as quickly as he could. “Sophia, this is, uh, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Hi Sophia,” she said. 

Grabbing his free hand, Sophia leaned back to study Elizabeth. “Can you see Kitty and Doggie?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t been to the museum yet,” she answered. 

“Mr. Neal can see them,” Sophia informed him. “And Mr. Jim and Mr. Blair. But Mommy can’t, and Mr. Peter can’t, and Miss Julie my teacher at school can’t, and--”

“Sophia,” her mother said, catching up. “I think Mr. Neal might be busy with his…friend.” She gave Elizabeth a very dubious look. 

“Hi,” Elizabeth said, extending her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Burke. Peter’s wife.”

“Amanda,” she said, briefly shaking Elizabeth’s hand. 

“How come you weren’t at the party?” Sophia asked. 

“She was still in New York then,” Neal explained. “She just came out to see Peter for a few days.”

“To see both of you,” Elizabeth said. 

Neal glanced over at her. Really? 

“Neal’s a friend of the family, as well as Peter’s Sentinel,” Elizabeth went on. 

“That’s…nice,” Amanda said. “Sophia, say goodbye—we have to get home.”

“Bye, Sophia,” Neal said.

“Bye Mr. Neal! Bye Miss Elizabeth!”

Once they were out of earshot, Elizabeth observed, “That’s the little girl Guide you met at the museum, right? Her mom didn’t seem very friendly.”

“Yep,” Neal said. “She…just found out about the felon on work-release thing. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. I can see why—the kid’s crazy about me, for some reason, and she can’t suddenly say she doesn’t want her talking to me without some kind of explanation.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Elizabeth said. She looked off in the direction Sophia and Amanda had gone. “I’d like to give her a piece of my mind.”

“It turns out a lot of people find the idea of a criminal Sentinel a little scary,” Neal said. 

“If they know you, they should know better.”

She sounded so confident that Neal couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth nodded and smiled. “Tell me about these people I’ll be meeting tomorrow,” she suggested. 

“At the Clinic, you mean?”

She nodded.

Neal told her about Tim and Dr. Desai as they circled around the museum and started back. “We haven’t met the work-life balance people yet. There’s also Selena, but we probably won’t be doing that while you’re here.” God, he hoped not. “She does…relaxation exercises and stuff.”

“I’ve heard about that,” Elizabeth said. Before he could get really worried about what she might have heard, she added, “Peter isn’t exactly a fan.”

“I’d noticed,” Neal said. “I’m not, either, but they tell us it’s important.” He quickly changed the subject to the Vermeer. 

It was the same sort of conversation they’d had on the phone a couple of times now—a bit of talking about Peter, a bit of talking about him, a bit of talking about less personal topics. It was getting less excruciatingly awkward every time. 

When they got back to the cottage, Peter had the dishwasher running and the pots and pans dried and put away. After exchanging a few words with him, Neal picked up Operation: Give Them Some Privacy where he’d left off. Going into his room and shutting the door, he very carefully ignored the obvious-to-a-Sentinel fact that Peter and Elizabeth were necking on the couch. 

He kept right on ignoring it—and reading the same page in his book over and over—until they retired to the bedroom. The familiar smell of Peter’s arousal mixed with Elizabeth’s. Not a Guide’s scent, but just as intoxicating—Neal had always loved women, and she was beautiful and charming. And to the very small, frequently quashed part of himself that looked at Peter and growled _mine_ , the fact that she was Peter’s wife made the whole thing even hotter. 

He didn’t, as he had feared, want to run in there and tear the intruder away from his Guide. No, he wanted to run in there and have them both, one after the other. Or simultaneously. He wasn’t picky. Maybe he could bury his face between El’s thighs while Peter fucked him from behind.

His hand went to his cock, seemingly of its own volition. El’s scent was so heavy in the air he could almost taste her, panting with his mouth open. Was Peter eating her out? He bet he was. If he was in there, Peter could tell him just what she liked. He’d use the same voice he used when they were doing relaxation exercises or sensory work, the one that went straight to his hind-brain. _Flick her clit with your tongue_ , he’d say, or _Really drive into her, she likes that_. And at the same time, Peter would be gripping his hips and driving into him—not hard, but deep and powerful. Maybe he’d bring them off at the same time, and they’d collapse into a sweaty heap, Peter warm and solid against his back, him nuzzling his face against El’s breasts and belly. 

And once they’d caught their breath, they’d take him in hand—El’s slender fingers overlapping with Peter’s broader ones. It would only take a few strokes, after what he’d done to them, and then they’d lick him off of each other’s fingers….

It wasn’t until the moments after his climax, when he was panting to catch his own breath, and listening to El trying to stifle her moans in the other room, that he realized the magnitude of the boundary he’d just breached. Cleaning himself up as quickly as he could, he grabbed his phone and hurried outside. Collapsing into one of the porch chairs, he dialed with shaking hands. 

“Moz? I am completely, totally, and absolutely fucked.”

#

“So,” Tim said after a little preliminary chit-chat about El’s flight and how she liked Cascade, “how’s it working out, sharing Peter?”

Neal choked on his pomegranate juice. Peter thumped him on the back, glad for the distraction. Tim’s question had produced a sudden and vivid mental image that he was certain was _not_ the sort of “sharing” that the therapist had in mind. 

“Neal, sweetie, are you all right?” El asked.

Neal nodded frantically, and after a few more coughs said raspily, “Just…went down the wrong pipe.” He took another, cautious sip of his drink. This one seemed to go down all right. “It’s going fine. Uh. Great. Clear sailing so far.”

El nodded. “I thought Neal was avoiding me at first, but I think he was just trying to give us some alone-time.”

“Right,” Neal said. “I thought you guys might want some….you know…privacy.”

Tim nodded. “That’s important. Peter? What do you think?”

For a panicked second, Peter thought Tim was asking what he thought about “…you know …privacy.” But he meant the original question. About the sharing. “Fine,” he echoed. “No problems.” Apart from the fact that he hadn’t quite found a way to tell El about his inappropriate reactions during the mandatory backrubs. He’d thought it was better done in person than on the phone, but now that El was here, there was a new problem: he knew how good Neal’s hearing was, and there wasn’t anywhere in the cottage where they could discuss the matter without the chance of Neal accidentally overhearing. 

“That’s good,” Tim said. “Of course, I’m sure everyone’s on their best behavior for the first day of Elizabeth’s visit. That’s a little difficult to sustain over the long term.”

“We won’t all be living in the same house once we go back,” Neal pointed out. 

There was an idea, maybe he could wait to tell El about it when they went home. It seemed like a long time to sit on a secret like that, but there were extenuating circumstances, weren’t there?

“Yes, and that brings its own challenges, doesn’t it?”

So they talked about that for a while—the ways that Neal could feel left out if he felt Peter was always rushing home as soon as they finished working, the ways El could feel neglected if being Neal’s Guide extended his already long work hours. And the ways that Peter could feel pulled in conflicting directions.

“I can handle it,” Peter said, but no one seemed particularly interested in that. 

“I think one thing we ought to do is make sure all three of us get together on a regular basis,” El said. “I’m thinking family dinner…maybe not every week, but as close as we can manage with everyone’s schedules.”

Neal was nodding. “I’d like that. And we can do it at my place, sometimes,” he added.

“He’s a good cook,” Peter told El. They’d gone to their old breakfast place by the motel that morning, and lunch had just been sandwiches, so she hadn’t had a chance to experience Neal’s cooking yet.

“Do you think it might be difficult having a stranger in your primary territory?” Tim asked.

“She’s not a stranger; she’s Peter’s wife,” Neal said. 

“I know you think that’s the right answer, but is it what you really feel?”

“Yes,” Neal said mulishly.

Elizabeth pointed out sensibly, “We can always try it, and if it’s a problem we can just use our place instead. Or restaurants.”

“Or June’s dining room,” Neal added. “I don’t think she’d mind. If it was going to be a problem.”

Their second session of the day was with the work-life balance team, a young man named Keith and a woman named Emily. 

“I can tell you’re a Sentinel,” Neal said to Keith. “But…are you?” he asked Emily.

“Mundane spouse of a Guide,” she said with a smile. “You can probably smell Marcia on me; that trips a lot of Sentinels up.”

“Yes,” Neal said, sniffing discretely. “Okay, I can see it now.”

Most of the session was spent filling Keith and Emily in on their situation. Peter suspected they’d been briefed in advance; they didn’t bat an eye over Peter’s UnRegistered status or Neal’s tracking anklet. Then they repeated some of the same reassuring statistics that Blair had spouted a couple of weeks ago. “It’s very common for one or both of a working Sentinel-Guide pair to have a spouse or partner,” Keith said. “Divorce rates are a little higher than the national average—but that’s also true of mundanes in careers that require a high level of commitment, like law enforcement. Since Sentinels and Guides are over-represented in those fields, it’s difficult to separate the two effects, statistically.” 

Elizabeth nodded. “A lot of Agents’ spouses feel like the job, or the partner, or both, are third parties in their marriage. Go into the kitchen at any FBI party and you’ll find half a dozen wives, and one or two husbands, talking about it. It’s the people who try to fight it that have problems. You can’t tell your spouse that they have to risk, I don’t know, leaving a serial killer free to strike again because it’s Date Night. You just can’t.”

“It’s the same with police spouses,” Emily agreed, adding as an aside, “Marcia is Cascade PD.” Peter wondered if they’d met her—maybe during the search for Kate; they had mostly used last names then. “Personally, I’ve found that sometimes it’s harder to accept if she has to work late because, oh, John has a headache, or something like that. What do you think about that, Elizabeth?”

“It hasn’t come up yet,” she answered. 

“You don’t consider this month it ‘coming up’?” Neal asked. His tone was curious, not hostile.

“I agreed to this month,” she reminded him. “And no, it’s pretty clear that this is an emergency.” She considered. “I don’t think I’ll like it very much if Peter always puts Neal’s needs first.”

“No reason why you should,” Neal said. “Or why he should.”

“I’m your Guide,” Peter pointed out.

“And her husband,” Neal said. 

“Neal, sweetie,” Elizabeth broke in. “Let’s keep in mind that I’m perfectly capable of speaking up for myself if I feel like Peter’s neglecting me, all right?”

Neal looked startled. “Right. Yes, of course you can. But--”

“But, nothing. Understanding how I feel and communicating about it is my job. Understanding how you feel and communicating about it is your job.” She turned to Peter. “And—I cannot stress this enough—understanding how you feel and communicating about it is your job.”

Peter and Neal both nodded meekly.

#

“Concentrate on your breathing. In…out…in…out.”

Elizabeth sneaked one eye open, seeing Neal in his perfect half-lotus and Peter sitting awkwardly crosslegged next to him. It was after dinner, and she was sitting in on Peter and Neal’s relaxation practice. She had to admit, it was a side of Peter she hadn’t seen before. He complained a lot about the relaxation exercises, but once they got started, he took them as seriously as he did everything else. 

She was a little disappointed that they weren’t doing clouds, though. 

Peter shifted his weight in her direction, and she quickly shut her eyes again. They continued breathing for another minute or two, until Peter said, “All right.” She heard the sounds of clothing rustling, and opened her eyes again to see Neal unfolding his legs and stretching. She did the same. 

“Right,” Neal said, starting to get to his feet. “That was nice. I’ll just--”

“We haven’t done backrubs yet,” Peter pointed out.

“Uh…I thought maybe we’d skip those today, Peter,” Neal suggested. 

“Do you want to tell Tim and Selena we skipped it?”

“I can do that,” Neal agreed. “Totally. No problem.”

“Tough,” Peter said. “Take off your shirt; I’ll get the cushions.”

“Maybe I should take a walk,” Elizabeth suggested. Peter tended to get a little cagey when talking about this part of their relaxation exercises, and she thought he might be less embarrassed about it if she wasn’t watching. 

“No!” Peter yelped. “I mean, I think you should stay. If Neal doesn’t mind.”

Neal looked back and forth between the two of them. “Whatever you guys think is best,” he said cautiously.

“I can stay, if you’d rather,” she agreed. Maybe he thought having her in the room would protect him from any possible gay cooties. How adorable was that?

Peter arranged the couch cushions on the floor as Neal slowly, with several poorly-concealed glances in her direction, unbuttoned his shirt. 

She could see what Peter was concerned about—clothed, Neal was seriously gorgeous; stripped to the waist, he was a sort of cross between a Botticelli angel and a Greek god. Seeing him spread out on the cushions waiting to be rubbed made her feel a slight need for a cold shower.

Or maybe a warm bath. She moved to the armchair, where she’d be out of the way, and watched as Peter knelt stiffly next to Neal and got started.

Peter worked in near-silence, only occasionally saying something like, “How’s that?” or “Good?” Neal answered with sleepy murmurs of agreement. Before long, his face took on a blissed, heavy-lidded expression similar to Satch in the middle of a serious tummy rub. 

“Okay?” Peter said, finishing up just above the waistband of Neal’s yoga pants. 

“Uh-huh. Yeah. I’m just gonna lay here for a minute.”

“All right,” Peter said, standing up. As he did so, Elizabeth caught sight of the very obvious tenting in the front of his trousers, which had formerly been concealed by his kneeling position. 

She followed him into their bedroom. “Peter,” she said sweetly. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

He winced. “El, it’s--” He glanced at the closed door of their room and lowered his voice. “Nothing happened. And I have to do it—Sentinels need to be touched by their Guides. It’s a thing.”

“I know,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “So _that’s_ why you don’t like the relaxation exercises.” 

“One reason,” Peter agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “And it’s more that I like them a little too much. I was going to tell you, but I couldn’t figure out how to….”

“ _Raise_ the subject?” she suggested. She heard the shower coming on from the other side of the cottage. Somehow, she didn’t think Neal was in a big hurry to wash Peter’s scent off of himself. 

“Tell you that I’m having inappropriate feelings about my CI,” he answered, clearly not amused.

“Normal feelings about your Sentinel,” she suggested instead. “I don’t blame you,” she said, sitting next to him. “He’s beautiful.”

Peter had his you’re-not-taking-this-seriously-enough expression on. 

“And just your type,” she added, drawing him into a kiss. 

“Mm,” he said. “You know how I feel about smart brunettes.”

“I do,” she agreed. 

He kissed his way down her neck. “I thought it might be easier to stay professional with you there, but—God, both of you in the same room.”

“We’re not both in the same room now,” she pointed out, undoing his waistband and slipping her hand inside. 

“Uh…no…better hurry, if we’re going to be done while he’s still in the shower.”

#

He’d thought last night was bad. Neal stroked himself with a wet, soapy hand, imagining Elizabeth getting up from the armchair to join in the “relaxation,” two pairs of hands touching him, rubbing him. His pants disappeared, somewhere, in this fantasy, giving them more bare skin to work with. And they quickly went beyond anything that could remotely be considered therapeutic massage, kissing and licking. Together, they rolled him onto his back, and someone’s lips brushed the head of his cock—

Neal was scrupulously careful to wash every last trace of come down the drain. Not even another Sentinel would be able to detect it.

The thing was, to a Sentinel, a woman’s arousal was just as obvious as a man’s. Elizabeth had been turned on too, out there in the living room. Not as much as he was, maybe, and not as much as Peter—but then, she hadn’t actually been participating. 

Neal wasn’t sure if that made the whole thing better or worse. But it definitely made it more complicated.

#

The next day at their session with Tim, he opened by saying, “Neal, you said something last week that I want to pick up on.”

Elizabeth peeked over at Neal, who was sitting on Peter’s other side on the couch in Tim’s office. He had his usual bright smile, but El thought it might be a little fixed.

“Which thing?” Neal asked.

“You mentioned that your father had an affair with his Guide, Ellen, while he was married to your mother.”

Oh, _Neal_. No wonder he and Peter hadn’t managed to say anything about their obvious attraction for each other. 

“Yes, he did,” Neal agreed. “And yes, I have considered the possibility that that’s why I think being my Guide could put a strain on Peter’s marriage.”

Tim nodded. “That was one of my follow-up questions. Matter of sexuality can be…complicated, for Sentinels and Guides.”

“We’re not having sex,” Peter said, very carefully not looking at her. “It’s a strictly professional relationship.”

“Okay,” Tim said, nodding. “Let’s back up to Neal’s father and Ellen for a moment. Neal, you said that Ellen told you that your mother was aware of the relationship and consented to it.”

“That’s actually pretty common,” El spoke up. “I joined a Facebook group for mundane spouses,” she added in answer to Peter’s questioning look. “Apparently some couples feel that since the relationship between a Sentinel and Guide is so intense anyway, there’s no point fighting to keep sex out of it.” She wasn’t sure how she’d feel about that herself. 

Neal and Peter were now both blushing furiously. Tim quickly glanced back and forth between them before adding, “Yes, and some feel that, for the same reason, sex should be reserved for the marital partnership. There’s no single answer that works for every partnership.”

It would have been a good time, Elizabeth thought, for someone to bring up Peter’s attraction to Neal. But Peter was clearly doing everything he could to keep them away from that subject. “I’m sure we could talk about it, if something like that came up,” she ventured.

“It’s not going to come up,” Neal said quickly. 

“Right,” said Peter. 

She gave up.

#

Astonishingly, they managed to get through the next couple of days without talking about it again. In the mornings they did touristy things—the wharf, a hike in the nearby mountains, shopping for presents for El’s nieces—and in the afternoons they went to the Clinic and talked about things like the importance of open communication and how Peter should have some backup in the Guide department.

Keith and Emily were asking about Neal’s social support system, apart from Peter—it seemed to consist of June and the J. Edgar Hoover guy, something Peter decided not to look at any more closely than he had to—when Keith asked who he had for respite.

“What?” Peter asked blankly.

“There are other Guides in your workplace, aren’t there?”

“Uh—sure,” Peter said. “Not in White Collar, but in the New York bureau, yeah.” He wasn’t entirely sure who any of them were. “I don’t really know them.”

“You should,” Keith told him, “And Neal should meet them. It’s important for both of you to know who you can call on if something goes wrong and Peter isn’t available.”

Emily nodded. “Sentinels don’t like to share their Guides, but in an emergency, they’ll cope. Suppose Peter gets hurt, for instance?”

Another thing Peter hadn’t even thought of. White Collar was supposed to be low risk, but somehow, things had a way of not quite working out how they were supposed to. He could just imagine Neal having some kind of Sentinel meltdown in the ER waiting room, and El scrambling to find someone who could come handle it. She’d manage, somehow, but it was better to be prepared.

So the subject of how they all needed to get to know more Sentinels and Guides was on their minds when they ran into Dr. Temas, the little Sentinel ophthalmologist, on their way out of the Clinic. 

“Hi Neal, Peter,” he said. “Kas, look, it’s Neal and Peter.”

“Hi,” Peter said. “My wife, Elizabeth,” he added, indicating her. 

“Angel Temas,” he said, offering her his hand. “I didn’t know Peter was married.”

“I’ve been holding down the fort at home while the boys are out here,” she explained. “I just came for a visit.”

“Neat. Hey, you know what? You guys should come to my party.”

“Angel,” Kas said. 

“No, they should. It’s tonight, at our house. There’ll be lots of people there you met at the other party—Guides, Sentinels, Clinic people.” He looked worried for a second. “But not Bob. Just nice people.” He bounced a little on his toes. 

“Uh, thanks for asking us,” Peter said. “But it’s El’s last night in town, so….”

“I think we should go, hon,” she said. “I’d like to meet some more Sentinels and Guides.”

“Yeah,” said Temas. “You know, there’ll be some mundane spouses, too. Kelly, and, uh, let’s see. If Eduardo comes, he’ll bring Hank.”

“Mike and Laura,” Kas added. 

“Right, them too.” Bouncing again, Temas took out a business card and scribbled on the back. “That’s the address. We’re starting pretty early, since it’s a weeknight. About seven-ish.”

“Why are you having a party on a Wednesday, anyway?”

“It’s my birthday,” Temas answered. “Oh! But you don’t have to bring me a present. If you don’t want to.”

Peter would have been happy to take him at his word, but El and Neal both agreed that meant they’d better show up with something. They settled on a bottle of wine as the simplest option, and discussed varietals and vintages enthusiastically for the rest of the short walk home.

#

When they got to Angel’s place, Neal regretted more than ever that he hadn’t managed somehow to fend off Peter’s insistence that they do “relaxation exercises” before coming here. Peter had said that they wouldn’t want to do them after the party, and Neal suspected he had a point—being a little tipsy would only make it likelier that one of them would blunder into the subject they had been dancing around since Monday night. 

On the other hand, it was a Sentinel party, and all three of them positively reeked of sex. There was probably some kind of etiquette thing—or if there wasn’t, there should be. 

Any hope Neal had that it was somehow not obvious to any of the other dozen or so Sentinels at the party was dashed when they ran into Jim and Blair, by the present table. “Oh, hi, guys,” Blair said. “And Elizabeth.” They had all met briefly the other day, when they went to the police station to look at the Vermeer. 

Elizabeth and Blair made polite small-talk for a moment or two, but Neal didn’t miss the way Jim’s nostrils flared slightly, or the way, as they separated, Jim leaned down to whisper something to Blair that made him cast a startled look in their direction before assuming a studied air of nonchalance. 

The best course of action, Neal decided, would be to break up the trio. Peter and El smelling like they’d been going at it would be completely unremarkable. So he grabbed a glass of wine and started to circulate. Angel’s collection of friends, he discovered, was more eclectic than he’d let on. There were quite a few Sentinels, Guides, and Clinic people at the party. There was also a sizeable contingent from the Northwestern Llama and Alpaca Club, another from Angel’s church, and many others Neal couldn’t categorize. He ended up joining in a surprisingly fascinating conversation with a radical Catholic priest, a fiber artist, and a science-fiction novelist, which started out being about altar cloths and ranged over a vast array of other subjects. He learned, among other things, that there were regional differences in llama fiber that, to a connoisseur, were as recognizable as those among wine-producing regions. 

“What do you do?” the priest asked Neal, when the fiber artist had finished describing her latest project.

“Oh, well, that’s kind of a funny story.” On that Neal wasn’t exactly thrilled about telling, considering how it had gone over at last week’s party. “I work for the FBI—but I used to be a con man.” He delivered the last with a bright smile.

His new friends, at least, took the news without bolting, or backing away with fixed smiles on their faces. “How did you manage that career change?” the novelist asked. 

“I’m on work release from a federal penitentiary,” he said with another bright smile. “I have a tracking anklet.”

The novelist proceeded to ask him several follow-up questions about exactly how that worked. The fiber artist and the priest drifted away during that, but Neal had the impression it was more because they weren’t particularly interested in the subject than because they feared for their wallets, so that was all right.

After Angel cut his birthday cake—chocolate with buttercream frosting and a nicely tart raspberry filling—several guests clamored for him to open his birthday presents. As Neal had suspected, their bottle of wine was one of the less impressive offerings. The fiber artist had given him a sweater knitted from the fiber of Angel’s personal llamas—which answered Neal’s question about the slight aroma of livestock that he’d noticed on their way up the drive. 

#

Dr. Temas’s house was a great party space—an open-plan A-frame with a cathedral-ceilinged great room and plenty of little nooks for more intimate conversations. Elizabeth wished more of her clients had a place like it—trying to arrange a party for a hundred people in a Manhattan apartment’s living room was usually a nightmare. 

Still, when everyone gathered in the great room at once for the cake and presents, it became a little claustrophobic. After finishing her cake, El took the rest of her glass of wine out onto the back deck for some fresh air. 

She was leaning on the railing, admiring the landscaping and wondering if there was any way of incorporating a water feature into their postage-stamp backyard in Brooklyn, when the door slid open behind her. She glanced over her shoulder.

“Just me,” said Angel Temas, with a little wave. 

“Happy birthday,” she said with a smile. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thanks; we like it.” He picked a spot of railing a few feet down from hers and leaned on it. “Go back to sleep, Carlos,” he said to the empty air. 

“Hm?” she asked.

“One of my llamas,” he explained, waving a hand in the direction of a small barn some distance away. “He’s humming at me. They do that.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” she said.

“Well, you’re not a Sentinel.” He shrugged. “How is that, by the way?”

“How is it that I’m not a Sentinel?” she asked, a little confused.

“No, I just meant…you and Peter, Peter and Neal.” He made a vague gesture. “Sorry, I’m being rude. I just can’t quite imagine what it would be like if Kas was married. To someone else, I mean. But I guess you three have it all worked out.” Another gesture. “You know. Probably the best way. I don’t know if I could handle that—I’m not really an orgy person—oh, hi Peter. Hi Neal.”

Elizabeth turned around to see Peter and Neal coming through the sliding door, Peter carrying her jacket. Neal distinctly mouthed the words Oh, shit.

“Orgy?” Peter asked.

“Well, you know, threesome,” Angel babbled. “Maybe that doesn’t count as an orgy. I’ve never looked up the strict definition. You know, maybe I’ll go check if we have enough ice. Bye!” He darted between Peter and Neal and into the house, before either of them could do anything more than look gobsmacked.

“El,” Peter said. “Is there any particular reason Temas thinks we’re having a threesome?”

“I’m not sure,” El said. 

“Ah,” Neal said. “Well. You know. That’s the thing about Sentinels.”

#

Neal had thought that stumbling on Angel and Elizabeth talking about orgies was the most embarrassing moment of his life to date. It was quickly trumped, however, by the next several moments in which he tried to explain how Angel had come to that particular conclusion. 

The moments after that, when Kas came out onto the deck to apologize for the complete lack of any filter between his Sentinel’s brain and his mouth, were almost refreshing by comparison. 

Fortunately, guests were starting to drift away from the party, so they made their goodbyes and joined the exodus. The ride back to the cottage was…quiet. That was fine, Neal thought. He could handle quiet. Maybe they would be able to just go back to carefully not-talking about it, which had been working out just fine for the last several days. 

But as soon as they got back to the cottage, and Elizabeth had poured glasses of wine for each of them—Peter, who had been their designated driver, gulped his—she said, “All right, I’m just going to say it.”

There went that idea. Damn Mozzie, who, Monday night, had convinced him that his first impulse to run away, if possible to a remote island with no extradition treaty with the US, or back to prison if not, was premature. Now Peter really was going to kill him.

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Elizabeth finished.

That was…anticlimactic. And not very flattering. But those thoughts quickly fled as all the blood in his brain made a rapid and immediate plunge southward. Peter was clearly having the same problem; Neal thought even Elizabeth ought to be able to smell how turned on he was—and if not, the way his mouth was hanging open might have been a clue. 

Elizabeth rescued the wine glass from Peter’s slack hand before he could spill it. “I don’t think we should rush into anything,” she continued, “but we’re all consenting adults, and we’re all attracted to each other. It’s something to think about.”

Neal managed to pull himself together first—for a given value of “together,” at least. “Are you serious?” he asked. “I mean—you—Peter—me—getting sweaty and naked, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” said Peter. He sat down on the edge of the couch and put his head in his hands.

“That’s not a no,” Neal observed. “I mean, nobody’s run out of the room or thrown a drink in anyone’s face. This is already the closest I’ve ever gotten to a threesome.”

“Really?” said Peter. “What about you and that girl thief? Alicia Barnes, Alice Baxter, whatever her real name is.”

“No,” Neal said. “She and Kate didn’t like each other very much. It was a struggle to even get them to pull a three-man con together.” Alex and Mozzie could have happened, but Neal didn’t really see Mozzie that way. “What about you guys?”

“We’ve talked about it, but we’ve never found the right third,” Elizabeth answered. “I think we’re getting sidetracked. Neal, it sounds like you’re on board.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I am so on board.”

“Peter?” asked Elizabeth. 

He groaned. “I want to say yes. I so, so want to say yes. But.”

“But?” Neal asked. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“But I’m your custodial agent,” he said, looking pained. 

“So?” Neal asked. 

“So it would be…inappropriate.”

“I’m a Sentinel, remember?” he asked. The books were pretty clear that Sentinels and Guides were exceptions to professional standards about fraternization and conflict of interest. “And you’re a Guide. And Elizabeth doesn’t work with either of us.”

“It’s not that,” Peter said. “There could be an…appearance of coercion.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Elizabeth admitted.

Of course she hadn’t. Who in their right mind would think of something like that in the face of such brain-melting hotness? Only Peter. “Nobody’s going to think that,” Neal said. 

“They could,” Peter said. 

“No. No, and I can prove it,” Neal said. 

“How?”

“Blair didn’t,” he said triumphantly. “And if anybody was going to, it would be Blair. With the shooting and the horsewhipping. 

“Blair wasn’t there,” Peter pointed out. “He doesn’t know. Not that there’s anything to know. But if there was he didn’t know it.”

“Pretty sure Jim told him,” Neal answered.

“How would Jim--”

“Same way Angel did.”

“You mean every Sentinel at that party thinks we’re--”

“Just the ones who saw us together.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “That’s why you disappeared right after we ran into Jim and Blair?”

“Yep,” Neal said. 

Peter groaned again.

“Anyway,” Neal continued, “since they already think we are, we might as well.” He was pleased with that bit of logic.

Peter opened and closed his mouth several times. “That’s not how it works!”

“Maybe we can come up with some kind of compromise,” Elizabeth suggested.

#

Neal’s lips traced a line of kisses across her cheek and down her neck. “Mm,” he murmured into her skin. “You smell like Peter. Peter was kissing you here earlier, wasn’t he? Before the party?”

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s so hot.”

El had to agree. She was already regretting the limits of the compromise they had agreed on—making out, fully clothed, with an agreement to discuss going further once they were all back in New York. She knew it was the right choice, the sensible choice. For the three of them to dive headfirst into a sexual relationship had so many ways to end badly. But she was soaking wet and dying for more. “Peter, why don’t you get the other side,” she suggested breathlessly.

One problem with the kissing compromise was that they only had one mouth apiece—but if they were doing necks now, there was enough for both boys to share.

Peter happily agreed, and started nuzzling the other side of her neck. He broke off only when Neal’s hand came up to cup El’s breast. “Neal, are you stealing second?”

“What did you expect?” he asked, punctuating his words with kisses.

#

Neal’s mouth, Peter thought, should have been illegal. His kisses could go from tender and sweet to passionate and filthy in nothing flat. And back again. His hands tangled in Peter’s hair as he pressed forcefully into him, using his tongue as if he were fucking. Then they smoothed and stroked as he delivered chaste pecks to the corners of his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes. 

Peter let out a small moan of disappointment as Neal pulled away. Neal reached back with one hand, tangling his fingers in Peter’s, even as he leaned into El. They were beautiful together.

Neal tore himself away from her lips long enough to ask, “What does she like, Peter? Tell me what she likes.”

#

El’s kissing compromise was either the best idea anyone had ever had, ever, or a specially devised torture for horny Sentinels. Neal wasn’t sure which. He knew, more than any of them, how incredibly turned on they all were—the scent of it was heavy in the air, and he could hear it in the rapid rhythm of their pulses. It would have been so easy to go beyond what they had agreed—to bury himself in El’s moist heat, or to take Peter’s cock into his mouth. The fact that he couldn’t quite figure out the logistics of doing both at once might have been the only thing that stopped him from trying. 

On the other hand, he was right here between them, not left out on his own, imagining it all. That was El’s mouth on his, Peter’s on his earlobe. Peter’s arm reaching around him, pulling them all close as he caressed El’s face. 

He wasn’t used to settling for what he could get, not when there was a chance to steal more. But if they kept this up, Neal thought, Peter and Elizabeth might just make an honest man of him.

Epilogue:

The next morning at the airport, Neal watched Elizabeth and Peter kiss goodbye in the lineup for the security area. In some ways, it was a repeat of their reunion a few days before. But that time, Neal had been trying not to watch, trying not to become inappropriately aroused. 

Now…well. After finishing with Peter, Elizabeth turned to him. He’d expected a chaste peck on the cheek—they were in public—but she went for it, tongue, everything, like a soldier going off to war. 

“Yowza,” he said when she released him. 

A bystander, he noticed, was watching them with open curiosity. Neal tipped his hat to her; she sniffed and developed a sudden need to study the informational sign about liquids and gels, as though there might be a test on it.

“Remember,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll see both of your boys in a week and a half.”

“You most certainly will,” Neal said. 

“Sure thing, hon,” Peter said. 

“In the meantime—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

She disappeared into the security area. “You know,” Neal said, touching his tongue to the taste of her on his lips. “I think there might be a loophole in that.”

End


End file.
